


All That Glitters

by Blue_Sunshine



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Coping Mechanisms, Do Not Separate The Heirs Of Durin, Dragon-Sickness, Dwarrow, Elves, Erebor, F/M, Fíli and Kíli Brotherly Love, Gen, Healthy Relationships, Hobbits, Madness, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Mirkwood, Oh, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Thoughts of Self-harm, Unhealthy Relationships, Wizards, but I did, mild romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-04-30 13:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: “I slip away.” Thráin rasps. “I feel cold. The world is cold. The living are cold. Do you not see the fire?” Thráin asks him urgently. He holds up the stone in his fist, between them. “Can you feel its warmth? Do you not see the fire?”The Arkenstone burns. The gold burns. Silver, gemstone and jewel – it burned, bright and shrieking.“I see it.” Fíli confesses, the flicker of the flames bright in his eyes.~Madness haunts the King Under the Mountain, and all tremble in its shadow. Fili, his grandfathers favored heir, must do what he can to protect his people. Kili, long hidden from his grandfathers eye, must set out an on adventure they hope might save them all.





	1. The edge, and over.

**Author's Note:**

> So, as I despair over fic that get abandoned, and end incomplete after I fall in love with them, I try not to post anything before its finished, but this story - I'm breaking my own rule. I fully intend to finish it, i know where i'm going, but as of yet i'm only a few chapters in. So, hoping for the best, here it goes.

Fíli comes before his grandfather and stands very still. Thráin’s fingers trail first over his hair, uncomfortable with the familiar weight of gold and diamonds woven through it. Then he admires the burnished gloss and endless intricate patterns of his ornamental armor, whose polish makes it gleam and flicker like pale fire, even in the dimmed glow of Erebor’s crystal lit halls, which fed and carried sunlight and torchlight alike through even the deep stone.

“So precious.” Thráin murmurs, with a smile. It is not the smile Fíli remembers from childhood, fond and weathered. There is something craven about it, something greedy and brackish as he admires his grandson, his heir, with the same pleased fervor in his eyes with which he admires his treasures of gem and gold.

Fíli stands very still, until Thráin’s attention wanders away from him and back to the great mounds glittering piles of his treasury. Only then dare he speak.

“The Siege of Moria has failed, King Thráin.” Fíli whispers hoarsely, one hand desperately gripping the bejeweled hilt of his sword for the strength to ground him steady. “Your son did not return.”

_Uncle Thorin._

Fíli swallows against his pain, and the swelling, burning grief in his heart, and blinks only to clear the pressure behind his eyes, but Thráin takes no notice.

The Battle of Azanulbizar had been a crushing defeat, and Uncle Frerin - who laughed loudly and often and was always chasing after his nephews for mock sparring and a bit of mischief – had been slain. And when the pitiful few survivors had returned home from their failure, bearing his body?

King Thráin had ordered Prince Thorin to turn around and go back.

He would have the Ancient Halls and their vast, lost wealth, no matter the cost.

Fíli waited, breath caught, and watched King Thráin turn from his gold, a cascade of coins falling idly from his laden fingers. “Then he has failed me for the last.” Thráin murmurs, and turns once more away to wander and admire his horde.

The creeping dread that Fíli has felt for so many years every time he fell under the shadow of his grandfather finally solidifies into cold fear. Fíli sucks in a sharp breath, for he feels he might break, and quietly slips out of the room.

He cannot recount his steps or where they take him, but he finds Kíli (or Kíli finds him), and he shakes from head to toe as his brother helps him from his useless armor. He tears at the gold netting in his hair, and rips free the diamond beads, almost deaf to Kíli’s quiet murmurs and soft assurances. The pain in his scalp grounds him little, and he throws the shining decorations of his sword and his cloak and his vambraces away, despite Kíli’s careful attempts to calm him.

When he’s down to his too-soft, gold-wrought mail and his hair is snarled loosely around his head, he sinks to the floor and weeps. Kíli clings to him, and Fíli sobs into his hair, clutching at his brothers clothes.

“He doesn’t even care.” Fíli gasps. “He doesn’t even _care_.”

“Will fix this. We’ll fix this.” Kíli promises, soft and urgent. “We’ll find a way.”

Fíli gasps until he can at last catch his breath, and shudders in his brother’s embrace. Kíli pulls back and lifts Fíli’s face until he can look him in the eye. His younger brother’s face is full of worry and determination, and Kíli cracks a smile for him. “You and me, yeah?” Kíli asks, tone falsely cheery.

It has the desired effect, and Fíli chokes out a laugh. “Yeah. You and me.”


	2. Lies and Spies

Fíli walks around with a terror in his throat, following the loss of his Uncle. He is the Crown Prince now, and he feels the weight of it closing around him like a mine in collapse.

He waits too for King Thráin to order him to the field of battle, to fall as his mother’s brothers did, but Thráin does not. No, Fíli, the King finds to be too precious a possession to let slip away.

Instead he is laden with gilt gold and gleaming stones and wishes instead that Thráin had.

Nor does he send Kíli, which is a relief Fíli treasures fiercely in his heart, but perhaps that is not kindness. It is entirely possible that King Thráin, whose regard for family had been waning even by the time Kíli was born, paid so little mind that he simply forgot the younger of the brothers, or regarded him so little as to not think of him at all.

The brothers take heed to ensure this remains so. Kíli is not like golden Fíli, whose hair gleams like treasure and whose eyes shine like jewels. Kíli has the more grounded looks of his mother, and his eldest uncle. His hair is dark like deep earth, and his eyes have the look of molten bronze. He dresses more plainly, in bronze and black, affected with obsidian and onyx and only the deepest of emeralds and sapphires, fit for a Prince, but chosen for one who wishes to pass unnoticed.

Kíli ensures he spends much of his time away from the Court and the Royal Halls, where Thráin might take mind of him. And when training with the Guard and visiting the craftsman and lurking among miners and toymakers may not be far enough, Fíli sends his younger brother to the hunt, or to the markets of Dale.

To be apart from each other wounds them, but Fíli will suffer it if it will keep Kíli safe.

Their mother is not pleased with it, but there is little else they can do. Dís was once the silver among her father’s steel, but now the Lady of Erebor was as little familiar to him as a stranger.

All that remained was their duty. While Thráin looked down at his kingdom from the Throne, Fíli spent his time among the scholars and the King’s Council, trying to keep the kingdom from falling to forces within; Dís spent hers among the Courts of Erebor and Dale, and in Ravenhill, reading and writing missives and messages, in the hopes of keeping Erebor from falling to forces without; and Kíli spent his among the people.

“The siege is holding.” Fíli informs the King, as if the words were not a mantra that he had repeated for nearly ten years, and a lie to boot. Thráin hardly notices. At times, the brightness in his gaze rages high, and he demands more supplies and men be sent to turn the tide and take the Ancient Halls of Khazad-dum, and at others it dims and grows bitter, and he cuts off all aide for those in the field, either because he is too possessive of his gold, and will not see it moved, or he is furious with the failure, and suspicious of his soldiers, and declares that they must fend for themselves if they cannot bring him victory.

Fíli just bows his head, and bids his will be done.

But there is no siege on the Kingdom of Moria. Fíli withdrew their forces from that battle long ago. Still, men and supplies are sent, or not, at Thráin’s whim, but Fíli ensures they go to the settlement in the Blue Mountains. Fíli had not dared bring the soldiers back to Erebor, when he could bear the pointless losses no more. He had feared that there would be no way to slip such a thing past Thráin, and so he had bid them to take their lives and go elsewhere.

They had gone far to the west, and settled in the Blue Mountains, and called their new home Ered Luin. It was not the life they had known, but they were making something of it. They mined coal, and cut timber, and quarried blue stone, and little by little Fíli ensured their families were sent to them. Fíli sent his own father there, when he had noticed Thráin’s paranoid eye straying to his daughter’s husband too often.

The king had been so pleased, to see Fíli cast him away.

Ered Luin was the most daring action Fíli had ever taken, and he held that secret with everything that he was, dancing on the blade of it. He guarded it as fiercely as Thráin did his gold, and he’d done no few awful things to keep it. Intercepted messages and forged reports. Threatened members of the King’s Council and the Court alike. Imprisoned more than one power-hungry fool, when they sought to gain status by bringing the Crown Prince’s supposed treachery to light. Murdered spies, for being too loyal to Thráin, when they would not see his reason, and would not heed their own compassion, willing to damn Ered Luin and Erebor alike for the king’s coin.

Now, Fíli was facing the decision to send his mother to join his father. Thráin saw her dealing among the court, and hurrying back and forth to Ravenhill, and his wary eye was vicious. He muttered to himself deep into the night while he roamed amongst his treasure horde instead of sleeping, and he argued with himself, while Fíli hid in the shadows and watched with despair. He believed she was to conspire against him, his own once-favored child. He raged and raved, and, when bitter musings became far worse plots to see her imprisoned, banished, or killed, Fíli made his choice.

“I’ve sent the Lady Dís to Moria.” Fíli tells the king. “To oversee their resources, and assist their Healers. There are many sick.” He adds, because he knows now how to speak to his grandfather. To claim decisions in a way he knows Thráin will approve of, and to mention only the barest of details, only those which will satisfy the King, and might gain Fíli some pittance.

“Then load the wagons with medicine and let _her_ be away from here.” Thráin spits, the Arkenstone in his hands as he turns it over and over and over.

“Of course, Grandfather.” Fíli bows his head and turns away, weary relief making his heart flutter.

“Wait.” Thráin calls, as Fíli nears the entrance, and Fíli stills, his fluttering heart racing until it pounded heavily against his ribs.

Fíli turns back, to find Thráin is smiling at him. It is a warm smile, and proud, but the light in his eyes is a cold, glittering madness.

“You’ve done well, Fíli.” His grandfather says. “My treasure among treasures.”

The King strides forward, and Fíli stands as still as the stone from which his people came. Thráin clasps him on the shoulders and bends his brow to Fíli’s, the heavy crown clinking against the gold chains in Fíli’s hair.

It is such a tender gesture, and Fíli can barely keep himself from screaming.

Thráin pulls a ruby from his pocket, on a thick rope of braided gold and platinum, and draws it over Fíli’s head, to rest at his collarbone. Fíli holds his breath, certain that with his hands right there, Thráin must feel how hard his treacherous heart pounds, but Thráin takes no notice. His eyes linger on the gem.

It is heavy, and hangs from Fíli’s neck like a noose. King Thráin smiles at him, coldly satisfied. “There now.” He says.

“Thank you, my King.” Fíli murmurs, rooted to the ground.

Thráin leaves, and Fíli stands frozen there for a very long time.

There is a soft, deliberately tapped step behind him, and Fíli blinks his burning eyes, unaware of the passed time. He turns to look at one of the Spymaster’s more adept messengers, and stares at him dully.

His spies had been careful to warn him of their presence of late. Typically, they enjoyed appearing thin out of the shadows to the fright and shock of their fellows. Except Prince Fíli has survived more than one bid on his life, and had almost cleaved the head from the neck of the last spy to do so.

Nori of the Order bows his head, and then peers critically at the Crown Prince, without abash. “Are you unwell, my lord?” He inquires, leaning casually against the pillar he appeared beside, his fingers running idly on his sleeves, seeming to trace absent patterns and probably actually tracing hidden weapons. He’s a bold fellow, Fíli knows, and appreciates, but even the boldest of spies knows better than to brandish a knife in the presence of royalty, else he would no doubt be occupying his clever fingers instead with a blade.

It takes him a minute to process the inquiry, and when he does, Fíli laughs humorously, and bitterly. “How long do you think I have, Master Spy?” He asks.

Nori tilts his head, the tipped peaks of his hair tilting too. “Until the King returns?” the spy attempts to clarify, not understanding the question.

Fíli shakes his head, a sharp, vicious motion, and then lifts his hands to encompass the treasury, and the vast fields of glitter and gold. “Until the madness take me too.” Fíli rasps.

The spy doesn’t flinch, and neither does the Prince, but the words themselves seem afraid to echo off the walls, such is their danger. None speak of the dragon-sickness that grows ever-deeper in King Thráin, as it had in Thrór before him. Thrór had cut out the tongues of those who spoke of such and claimed it treason. Thráin had been kinder, at first. He’d had them banished, and when he’d worsened, he’d had them hung. When one poor fool, an emissary from the Grey Mountains, had, in argument, cast the slander to Thráin’s very own face, he’d hefted his axe and cut the Dwarf down on the very floor of the throne room, and ordered his body cast aside to rot.

Looking at the wretchedness on the poor lads face, even Nori was moved. “You are not your grandfather, Prince Fíli.” He says, resolute. The Crown Prince was beloved of his people, even of his spies, and he bore the weight of his duties better than any could ask of him, and he was still very young. For all he had reached his majority, no Dwarf was considered a real adult until they’d turned their first century, and Fíli had yet more than a decade to go.

The Prince looked upon him with weary blue eyes that held a deep sadness in them, and smiled bitterly. “And how long, must I wonder, did King Thráin think the same?”

Nori did not like this, this despair and hopelessness. Yet he was a spy, and knew not what to do.

“There is a traveler come to see you.” Nori delivers his message, resisting the urge to clear his throat for the awkwardness. “He claims to be a Wizard. Calls himself Gandalf the Grey.”


	3. Wizards Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah....Gandalf. Gandalf.

Kíli was waiting for him, when Nori finally led him out of the spy passages and into an obscure and no doubt hidden audience chamber which belonged to his Guild.

Fíli hugged his brother tightly when he leapt to his feet and all but ran to him. They’d had not seen each other at all for several weeks, as Kíli had traveled with their mother’s caravan through Mirkwood on her journey west, and they had had little more than a few brief moments together in many months.

Kíli is warm, from sitting by the fire, and he smells strongly of sweat and sap. It brings a smile to Fíli’s face, and he pulls several twigs, burrs, and many leaves from Kíli’s hair. “You would not collect such detris if you would but braid it.” Fíli chuckles. “Or allow me to.”

“Amad said exactly the same thing.” Kíli grins delightedly back, and attempts to return the favor by pulling jeweled strands from Fíli’s hair, but Fíli shakes his head and draws his reaching fingers away, clasped in his own, and the Wizard clears his throat.

“My apologies I did not greet you.” Fíli expresses, wistfully stepping aside from his brother.

“None are needed.” The Wizard, a dreadfully tall fellow, says in stride. “Though introductions may be. I am Gandalf the Grey.” He tips his pointed hat, and sweepingly bows, bent over his walking stick.

“Fíli, son of Víli, daughter’s son of Thráin, Heir Under the Mountain.” Fíli bows back. “At your service, Tharkun.”

Gandalf’s bushy brows raise, and he looks oddly flattered. “A title I have not heard in an age. I did not know if I was remembered.” He says quietly, with a touch of affection.

“Dwarves forget little.” Fíli replies lightly.

“So it appears.” The Wizard muses, and settles himself back by the fire, his face drawing grave. “Though I’m afraid I do not come merely to enjoy old recollections. I bring dire news.”

Fíli had suspected as much. Few were the friends that visited the Mountain these days. Kíli draws beside Fíli, his cheer dimming into a hard focus. The spy, Fíli noticed, was doing a rather fine job of making himself unnoticed, leaning into the shadows whilst still lurking.

“I’ll hear it, then.” Fíli nods, wondering tiredly what ill weight was coming to the fore now, and whether he could bear it. He almost laughed at himself, because he knew well enough he had little choice but to.

“I have heard rumors, of late. Darkness stirs in the shadows, and foul things are coming forth.” Gandalf says grimly, looking old, very old, and troubled.

Kíli nods. “We’ve had wild Wargs come down from the north. And ill-fated spiders infesting the Elven wood.” Kíli had been on many patrols in which he’d encountered the beasts himself.

“Increased attacks on the roads.” Fíli adds, with some bitterness, because the Orcs and Goblins would not have crept out of their dark places if the siege of Moria still held, or had been won. Yet neither could they do.

Gandalf nods gravely, and hums. “And so it was that I was lead east, following the root of that darkness.” He shakes his head, indecisive. “And word came to me…” He pauses, purses his lips, and continues. He looks to Fíli’s face, and Kíli’s. “I verified the truth as best I could myself, to tell you I do not bring fancy tales and false hopes to your door.”

Gandalf sighs, and Fíli wishes he would be out with it.

“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, is still alive.” The Wizard tells them.

There are no gasps, and lurches, no excitable shock. Kíli merely looks angry, and Fíli tired.

“Thorin Oakenshield fell in battle.” Fíli rasps. “It was witnessed.”

Fíli had demanded every detail, questioned every soldier, interrogated even the wounded in their beds, and all, shame-faced and sorry, had told the same dread tale.

Gandalfs drawn brows are sympathetic, and his voice gentle. “Yet your people could not recover his body.” He says.

Kíli sucks in a breath then, harsh and upset, and turns away, fists clenched. Fíli just wants to close his eyes. Balin, then Commander of the Field, had wept, bearing the news to Fíli, bringing back his Uncle’s sword and not his body. Dwalin, now Captain of the Guard, had raged bitterly, unable to even rise from his bed so grave were his wounds, and begged forgiveness for failing in his duty.

“We could not recover our dead. We could barely reclaim our wounded.” Fíli murmurs. “Wargs took the field, and trolls guarded the Gates.”

That had been shattering, to him as well as to his soldiers. That their fallen were left as carrion for the crows and the wolves to desecrate.

“And so it was that Azog took his prize into the mountain.” Gandalf nods. “And did not allow him to die of his wounds.”

_Did not. Allow him. To die._ Fíli shudders.

“It’s been ten years!” Kíli suddenly screams, storming up to the Wizard. “It’s not possible! We – We’d have known! We’d have come for him!”

“What do you know of this?” Fíli asks. Gandalf looks across, but Fíli is not addressing him. Fíli is addressing the figure in the shadows, and the spy’s lips twist into a grimace.

“Orcs and Goblins alike take their prisoners.” The spy admits. “Slaves for sport. Few live long lest they’re particularly…” Nori hesitates, dark eyes unhappy, and glances away. “... _favored_.” He mutters.

_Favored_ , Fíli knows too well, is not a kindness.

Kíli sinks down like his legs were cut from under him, his eyes wet with tears. “Uncle Thorin. _Uncle Thorin_.” He moans.

“Get up.” Fíli snaps suddenly. “Get up!” He grabs his brother and hauls him to his feet and shakes him. “You’ll muster the Vanguard, we must-“

“Wait.” Gandalf’s voice rises thickly over the room. Not a shout, but something with a strange weight to it, drawing Fíli’s own voice away.

“He has waited long enough!” Fíli cries out, his heart icy in his chest, that constant terror in his throat practically _drowning_ him. “We are not leaving him there!”

“I am not suggesting that you do.” Gandalf placates. “But you, Fíli _Goldentongue_ , know better than any other that you cannot take Moria by force. No army can crush those walls. No siege can break those gates.”

Fíli deflates, and his bitterness is almost blinding, because the Wizard is right. Fíli has committed treason, lied and murdered, because Gandalf is right. They cannot take Khazad-Dum. They have tried, and they have failed, and the blood already spent on the endeavor could paint every slope, stone, and pebble of the Lonely Mountain red.

“What do you suggest we do?” Kíli pleads.

“What you need for this, dear fellows, is a _burglar_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter and the last have ambiguous time-frames, I'm not too worried about it.
> 
> Also...still deciding on how I should release my chapters. I know these three needed to be released together to get the ball rolling, but the rest of what is already written....I'm sort of looking for peoples reactions to see help guide me.


	4. To Divide

Fíli is holding the Arkenstone.

It is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. A flawlessly smooth gem, like an egg. Shining white with a fire of colors inside that glowed softly, and it carried a warmth, even when untouched. The warmth gentled against his hands, and looking upon it was like a balm to pain, and grief, and anger. It soothed, and called to him, soft nothings in the back of his mind, a melody, perhaps, a lullaby? The King’s Jewel. The Heart of the Mountain, it promised _so much_ – Strength, _for was he not to be King_? Power, _for was it not his birthright_? Fortune, _for should it not flow freely_?

It sickened him, and Fíli _hated_ it.

He wanted to dash it upon the stones and watch it shatter. Cast it into the deepest mine, may it be forgotten in darkness till the end of time. Throw it into the sea, where no one and nothing could dive deep enough to reach it. Drown out its light and its power and its succoring call.

He did not. He _could_ not.

He sat still, and it gleamed innocently in his palms.

King Thráin had commanded the finest artist in Dale to paint his Heir’s portrait. Fíli did not know why or when the whim had struck the King, but it had near been a disaster before he could intervene.

Erebor’s King had no call upon the citizens of Dale, and his demand was not met well. The artist was eager enough to accept the commission, but not the moment it was demanded of him, and the messenger, a young fool, had nearly brought that news right back to Thráin before Fíli’s people had managed to intervene, two keen Guards and one quiet spy catching the Dwarf and dragging him by force from the Throne room before he’d managed to catch Thráin’s eye, Mahal forbid his message actually reach his ears. King Thráin’s temper was ever more vicious, and his retribution ever more bloody.

So they’d had to pay off the messenger, and send him back to his Guild to learn some proper dwarvish sense! Then send another messenger to the Artist, and attempt to bribe him to do as Thráin had requested. Affronted by the entire situation, proud and desired craftsman that he was, he’d practically refused on principle, and weaseled far more than what might even have been considered a generous sum from Erebor. To further worsen the matter, he had opened his mouth, and, favored among the nobility as he was, word of the affair had reached the King of Dale.

So Fíli had hurried to send Balin, his most trusted advisor, to Dale as well, to smooth over diplomacy before it escalated into hostility. They may not speak openly of Thráin’s madness, but even the good King of Dale grew ever more wary of it. The Elvenking had already withdrawn from relating with Thráin’s court, and had advised him that similar distance may be wise.

For the last half decade, whenever Thráin actually roused enough to notice the absence of visiting elves, Fíli had pretended that the King had only just missed their emissary, and that Fíli himself had dealt with them, claiming he did not want to bother his grandfather to deal with elvish fickleness and riddling. He would present elvish ‘gifts’ to the King, and Thráin would praise him for his loyalty and devotion. As such, Thráin had developed a fond opinion of King Thranduil of the Wood, through his absent, and thus easy, diplomacy.

Which is a fine example of why they called Fíli _Goldentongue_ , when they thought Thráin would not hear them.

Balin was still in Dale, but the artist had come.

Thráin paced behind him, muttering on every detail.

“A portrait of my most precious possessions.” Thráin had murmured, when he put the Arkenstone into Fíli’s hands, and Fíli on the throne. The braids in his hair were complex and regal, and littered almost garishly with gold strands and glittering diamonds. A crown sat upon his head, a Prince’s circlet, gleaming with rubies, to match the one still hanging from his neck. His gold chainmail and high silver armor, etched and burnished shone in the sunlight streaming through the gates and the crystal veins. He was set proudly upon the throne, and had been for hours.

His neck aches, his rear end had long gone numb, he’s sweating, the fur-lined collar of his fine white cloak far too warm, and he hoped the artist would at least do him the mercy of ensuring his expression in the painting was something other than the revulsion he could feel, crawling across his skin.

But he had practice sitting still.

And so long as he was here, so was King Thráin, and that made things easier.

It was decided that Kíli would go with the Wizard. He would take with him a small contingent. They would seek out this burglar the Wizard claimed to know, far in the West, and then head for Moria, to free Thorin.

It would be a journey of many months, and they must move swiftly and secretly, and their safety and success was not guaranteed.

Kíli would go.

And Fíli must remain, for he feared terribly for Erebor, should he not be here to protect their people from Thráin.

Dwalin would go with him, sworn to guard the Line of Durin. Balin had refused, swearing to stay at Fíli’s side, where he felt he would be put to better use. He had recommended instead a younger scholar, whose absence would be of less note, and whose mettle could do with the testing. Dwalin would choose another warrior or two to join their company, Balin added a healer and a cook to their roster, and Fíli insisted they bring one of his spies, for their skills in the secretive arts, and stealth, and, selfishly, so that he might be passed word when his spy was able to. Add the mysterious burglar, and the Wizard made ten.

So while Fíli sat here in his misery, the secret Company snuck out of the Lonely Mountain, and slipped away, unnoticed and unmentioned.

~*~*~*~

Kíli’s heart was singing, buoyant and light like a bird in his chest. Finally, a task worthy to do, instead of sulking just beyond Thráin’s sight, and hiding from his grandfather’s footsteps.

And Uncle Thorin. _Uncle Thorin was alive_.

Just the sort of blessing Erebor truly needed.

Kíli looked over his Company, unable to keep himself from counting them again, collecting his impressions and categorically filing them away in his mind, the way he would the possessions of his hunting pack.

Dwalin, Captain of the King’s Guard, swayed slightly on his shaggy pony, stock-still and a little ill-looking. He had been roaring to leave the moment he’d heard the tale told, and the mission ahead, but the longer he’d thought on it, the worse off he’d seemed to get, withdrawing into himself like a warrior with his death-wound.

“Keep an eye on my brother, will you lad?” Balin had asked him quietly, before ushering them off. “He was sworn to guard your Uncle to his death. That Thorin lives will soothe one wound, that he was captured by the enemy these long years will create another. Watch him, will you? I fear for his spirit.”

Kíli had sworn to it, for Dwalin had been a great teacher to him these many years, and he cared for him deeply.

Glóin and Bifur, both veterans of the Battle for Azanulbizar twice over, are the warriors Dwalin selected to accompany them, and they ride at the rear of the Company, on two white ponies. Glóin was a master of the axe, in forge and in field, and Bifur, though now a toymaker, was once one of the craftiest scouts Dwalin had ever met, and he still trusted his instincts better than any other, even despite the hatchet still buried in his skull.

The rest of their party was somewhat less auspicious (excluding the Wizard, of course). Óin, brother of Glóin, was a seasoned field medic, and indeed has spent his aging years as one of the most demanded mentors in the Healer’s Guild. Bombur, their cook, was Bifur’s cousin. A jolly fellow, and not quite as…discreet, as Kíli might have hoped, for one does not easily overlook a fat red-headed dwarf, but Balin had said that keeping their company as small and discreet as possible was easier the less diverse it was, and so pulling their partners from among the same kin worked better.

Which left Nori, the spy, and his youngest brother Ori, the young scholar who had apparently never before ventured beyond the arms of Erebor.

Perhaps not the greatest and grandest for such an adventure, but Kíli could not help how his spirit soared when he looked upon them. Gandlaf caught his gaze, and his eyes twinkled knowingly.

The great boughs of Mirkwood rose above them, the shadows beneath green leaves darker and thicker than perhaps they should be, and Kíli called the company to a halt, and lifted a horn to his lips.

A small, low note rang out twice, and he waited, peering into the trees. An answering call came from the north, and he led his party towards it.

When the elves appeared in the trees, several among his party grumbled, the young scholar outright gasping, but Kíli saw a familiar face and felt a wide smile cross his face.

“Captain Tauriel!” Kíli cried happily. “Well met!” He turned in his saddle and pulled a bundle of arrows from his spare quiver. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

Fine silver wood, with the auburn fletching’s of falcons of the same color as her hair, and delicately wrought steel arrowheads, forged by his own hand.

Tauriel does not smile, nor move to take them. “You did not know I would be on patrol to greet you.” She says plainly, her brow smooth and her gaze piercing.

“One does not need to know, my woodland lady.” Kíli replied delightedly. “One only need hope.”

Two of the other elves mutter in sindarin, and Tauriel’s smooth expression breaks into exasperation. She takes the arrows perhaps less gracefully than an elf should, but Kíli doesn’t miss that her eyes gleam to look at them closely, and she runs her fingers through the fletching’s before securing them to her quiver.

“You are well at your craft.” Tauriel comments in light gratitude, and Kíli’s smile dims a little. The she-elf turns away, her red hair gleaming, and studies the rest of his party. Her brow lifts slightly at Dwalin’s sullen glare, and her eyes widen a fraction when she observes the wizard.

“This is not the company you keep for your patrols, Prince Kíli.” She says coolly, staring at Gandalf’s affable smile.

“Indeed not, lady _elf_.” Dwalin says shortly. “We travel on private business, which is none of yours.”

Tauriel’s eyes narrow, and the other elves in the trees stiffen in offense. Kíli glowers at Dwalin.

“You wish to take the forest road.” Tauriel states coldly, all faint pleasantry to her countenance gone. “Many of yours have, of late. They head west and do not return. Are you too then to abandon the Mountain and its Mad King?”

The cruelty of her words strikes Kíli harshly, though she was not addressing him, and he flinches. Her eyes flicker towards him, and then away with a slight wince.

Dwalin bristles, rising in his saddle, and dark Khudzul brimming on his lips.

“We abandon nothing.” Kíli cuts across firmly, though he cannot meet her eye. “The Wizard has told us that my Uncle yet lives, and we seek to secure him. May we pass?”

“King Thranduil has grown weary of dwarves in his woods, Prince of Erebor.” Tauriel informs him. Kíli stares resolutely at the trees beyond her, and does not see her hesitancy, as she glances at her companions with a frown. “I will carry your message to him, and you may wait to see whether he bids you pass, or you may go around his realm.”

She steps back, and Kíli lurches. “Wait!” He calls out, before turning to Ori. “Fíli’s gift to the Elvenking?” Kíli prompts him. Ori squeaks, and then loosens a leather pouch from his packs, and brings it to Kíli, cowed by nervousness this close to the elves. Kíli takes it with a nod, and Ori retreats.

Tauriel catches his toss with lifted brows, and peers inside. Even in shadowed sunlight, the pale white stones shimmer and shine like stars. She looks up, startled, but Kíli’s expression is stoic in his hurt.

“From the Crown Prince Under the Mountain, to the King of the Woodland Realm.” Kíli says stiffly.

She nods, and the elves disappear into the wood.

“Are- are you friends with that elf, Master Kíli?” Ori asks quietly, once they’ve decided that they may as well take a chance to stretch their legs and eat while they wait for the elves return. Dwalin grumbles, irritable and cross, and plants himself firmly between their party and the wood. Bifur and Óin are having a lively, rapid-fire discussion in Iglishmek, the hand-language, Bombur is parting out their food rations, and Glóin is regaling Gandalf with tales of his son, Gimli. Nori is lurking on the edge of Dwalin’s line of sight, and no doubt driving the surly Guard Captain to distraction. Dwalin, apparently, did not know Master Nori was a spy. Rather, he had seemed utterly convinced that Fíli had tasked a particularly clever and irksome common thief to their party, and Nori had not sought to reveal himself.

“He’s to help our burglar.” Kíli had said, leaving it at that. Spies were only good spies if no one knew who they were.

“We’ve shared many hunts, and slain many enemies together.” Kíli says, still somewhat ruffled by her unusually cold regard.

He had first laid eyes on the elvish Guard Captain during a routine border patrol. Her party had matched his party step for step the entire long line of Erebor’s border with Mirkwood, each of them regarding the other with stony silence.

Slowly, such occurrences had become commonplace, and bored warriors could only ignore each other for so long. A dwarf had started a song, and an elf had taken a dislike to it. Soon they were trading insults, until the insults gained familiarity, and the familiarity had bred a sort of companionship. Challenges were made, bets taken, and, when an orc party had attacked a caravan at the edge of their patrol, they had found themselves fighting side by side.

Kíli had taken up an elvish bow when his sword had been lost to a mace’s blow, and the outrage of the elves upon discovering his skill with it had been a thing of beauty.

That first invitation to a hunt (for foul spiders, that is) – to prove that no dwarf could truly match an elf in archery, of course – had been a true and delightful surprise. Tauriel had outdone him handily, of course, crushing his poor heart and his pride quite ruthlessly, but Kíli has had many years now to improve his practice, and each new challenge and battle had brought them closer.

So he’d thought. _Elves have fickle natures_ , Kíli thought bitterly, _and fool are we who fall for them._

Night is falling, when an elvish scout steps suddenly out of the trees. Dwalin stiffens and his hand falls on his war-hammer, and all the dwarrows leap to their feet, making the ponies nervous.

“My King will grant you safe passage.” The elf says. “If you will but meet him in his Hall.”

Kíli glances to the Wizard, but Gandalf’s face gives him no clues nor guidance.

“Very well then.” Kíli mutters to himself. “We accept his offer.” He calls out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kili and Tauriel was not something i liked when the movies came out, but it somehow turned into one of my favorite pairings in the fandom. Their back and forth when the elves take the dwarrows prisoner in the 2nd movie? I thought that was spot on for the merrier side of elves as Tolkein writes them, and adorable to boot. Mostly due to Evangeline and Aiden's acting. That instant love connection thing, however? No.  
> My fave head-canon fix for that is making it so the dwarves were imprisoned for a month like in the books, and not, you know, a couple hours.  
> Also, I absolutely hated how the tragedy of Fili and Kili's deaths was usurped in favor of the (completely non-canon) romantic plot line, when it should have been about the bond between the brothers, and the end of the line of Durin.


	5. the Unkindness of Kings

Fíli runs for the throne room, the guard who’d brought him word clearing his path with hurried commands. “Clear the way! Clear way!”

As they near, he can hear the stone tremble with Thráin’s wrathful bellows.

“DO YOU THINK I WAS SO BLIND?” He snarls, standing before his throne. Some three members of the Council have been dragged before him, one of them cowering on his knees. “DID YOU THINK I WOULD NOT SEE YOU WHISPERING SECRETLY? That I would not know you plotted against me! TELL ME WHAT YOU’VE DONE! TELL ME WHO AMONG YOU WOULD BETRAY ME?”

Fíli’s terrified heart gives a great leap, as he realizes that Thráin may suspect treachery, but he has not _discovered_ it. Fíli can salvage this.

“Y-y-your m-ma-majesty!” One of them stutters and pleas, beard trembling, looking about for help. The entire Grand Hall is silent and still, the crowds frozen before the spectacle, and none will dare draw Thráin’s ire. “We-we do n-not plot again-against you, King Thráin!”

“LIES! CONSPIRATORS AND THIEVES! I will not have it.” Thráin draws his axe, spittle flying from his mouth as he bellows. “I WILL NOT HAVE IT!” He hefts his axe and strides forward, dwarrows scattering away from his path.

“GRANDFATHER!” Fíli shoves through the last and crashes to his knees at Thráin’s feet, throwing himself between the enraged King’s upturned axe, ready for a fell blow, and the cowering councilors behind him, who have held Fíli’s trust even in the face of death. “It is not what you think!” Fíli cries, kneeled before the king.

“What is _this_?” The King’s voice is rich with malice, and he grabs Fíli by the hair, drawing him up with a painful, wrenching grip. “Do you betray me as well?”

“I asked them to keep my confidence, Grandfather.” Fíli keeps his voice even, and his eyes low, looking up only through his lashes. “They meant no harm.”

“And what secrets would my heir keep from me?” Thráin demands.

Fíli swallows dryly, and he can feel the councilors behind him draw back, prepared now to flee for their lives.

“I wanted to surprise you.” Fíli murmurs, licking his lips faintly and trying in vain to wet his mouth, to not rasp. “I had planned a grand celebration in your honor.”

Thráin’s axe lowers a notch, and the King releases Fíli with such force he almost throws him down. Fíli’s feet come flat to the floor, and Thráin’s suspicious hands tighten firmly on the hilt of his axe.

“And for what cause would you have me believe such a thing?” Thráin asks darkly, unconvinced.

Fíli sucks in a breath and looks up meekly, hurt shadowing his eyes and surprise his face. He looks away, as if he cannot bear to see such doubt from his King, and his blood is icy for the deceit. “It marks your three hundredth year this Autumn, grandfather. I had only wanted…” Fíli looks back, imploringly, and then closes his eyes softly, and opens them once more, straightening himself from an endearing grandchild into a more solemn Prince, facing his King, as if setting aside such childish wants. His hands tremble, and he feels very faint as he lies. “Erebor prospers, my King. Wealth fills its halls, and as your people prepare for Durin’s Day I had only thought…that given this most auspicious year, it would gladden all to have a grand celebration.” Fíli drops a knee to kneel once more, and look up at his King. “You _deserve_ as such, do you not?” He whispers, loathing every word dropped from his tongue which would only flatter Thráin’s madness, the greed and vanity which grew deeper and darker every year.

Fíli stares up at his King with bated breath, and waits, heart pounding.

The rage on Thráin’s face twists, and he casts down his axe. He once more wrenches Fíli up by the shoulders, and his mouth splits into a wide grin.

“My precious golden grandson.” His grandfather laughs, proud and pleased. “Your loyalty and devotion are such treasures to me!” He draws Fíli into a tight embrace. Releasing him, he turns to face his people. “LET IT BE KNOWN! DURIN’S DAY SHALL DAWN A CELEBRATION SUCH AS THE WORLD HAS NEVER KNOWN! TO EREBOR!”

“ _TO EREBOR_!” Every dwarf in the hall cried back, cheering.

Thráin pulls Fíli close again, cupping his face. “I shall leave it in your hands then, my precious.”

Fíli closes his eyes. “Thank you, grandfather.” He almost collapses in relief.

Fíli slips away and leaves the hall as fast as he can manage, without seeming like he’s fleeing, and finds the councilors waiting for him.

“Are you so unable to act discreetly?” Fíli questions the Guildmasters, angry and fearful. “What did he catch you for?”

“We do not all have your skill for spinning words, _Goldentongue_!” The Market Master snaps. “Nor your favor.”

“And are you not glad of it?” Fíli snarls back.

“Ease and cease.” The Master of Coin cut between them. He looks to Fíli. “We are sorry, Crown Prince.”

Fíli shakes his head with a sigh. “My apologies to you all. You have kept faith and it is no easy burden I have asked of you. I am merely shaken.”

They all grumbled their understanding.

“Now then.” Fíli straightens. “If we are to have a grand Durin’s Day such that may satisfy King Thráin, we have much to do.”

~*~*~*~

Kíli does not gape, as he is lead into the Elvenking’s hall, the first Dwarf to do so since the early years of Thráin’s reign. The high ceilings open to starlight where breathtaking, the music hauntingly wistful, the very air dazzling in halls suspended from the sky.

Instead, he strides after his elvish escort, head held high and face as still and giving as stone, and is all too aware of how poor a showing he makes of himself. His clothes are made for rough travel, and even his nicest tunic, deep Durin blue, adorned with silver thread and darkly gleaming citrine stones, though fine and rich, were not made to impress. They were tailored to help a Prince go unnoticed in his own court.

The clasp in his hair and the ring on his thumb are the proudest items he possesses, for they were made of mithril, and cast a pale fire with opals and amber, but even that was small and secretive. They had been a gift from Fíli, who felt his brother deserved that the world know how brightly his heart burned, but it was still crafted by one who held a terrible fear of it drawing Thráin’s greedy eye and vain temper.

King Thranduil certainly does not look impressed, where he lounges on his throne, dressed in silks that spill like sunlight and water, a woven crown of willow on his head, with dark green leaves and silver blooms. His expression is distant and proud, as if all was beneath him and a trifle boring to boot.

His gaze is icy and only idly curious, when he takes note of Kíli’s presence, and then he looks beyond him, and lifts one pale brow.

“Mithrandir.” Thranduil calls out softly. “Perhaps this child’s claim has more merit than I believed, if you walk with him.”

Kíli flushes with anger, but he has held his anger at bay too often these last ten years to let it take hold of his actions now. Even dwarrows considered him a child still, over his majority or not, and in the face of many millennia, all are children under the elves. He will _not_ take offense to such goading, he will not give Thranduil the satisfaction.

“It has been an age, Lord Thranduil of the Green Wood.” The Wizard bows, after shuffling towards the dais. Kíli wonders if that greeting is literal, and uses that curiosity to draw the bite from his anger.

“It is not a fools fancy, then?” Thranduil inquires, and Kíli stiffens to realize the Elvenking has turned his gaze back upon him. “You truly seek to delve into _Moria_ in an attempt to recover Thorin Okenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. He does live?”

“So the Wizard has told us.” Kíli states. “And so our spies have considered possible.”

“And what do you hope such an action shall achieve?” Thranduil inquires.

Kíli’s brow furrows, he doesn’t understand. Thranduil leans forward, and his gaze glitters coldly.

“Do you think he will take the throne and save you?” Thranduil’s voice is coldly curious, and yet edged with a hiss of anger. “Do you really believe he will not fall to the same madness, or one worse, tainted by those black creatures as he no doubtedly is? Reclaiming your fallen kin will not be your salvation, Child of Durin. Your entire wretched line is _cursed_ , and I _bore_ of it.”

Kíli is completely taken aback, and his rage stirs blackly. His clenches his hands, hard enough that the ring his brother forged him cuts into his flesh, and he breathes through the maelstrom of his emotions, grief and denial, fury and _hurt_. He will not fall prey to the taunting of an _elf_.

If Fíli can withstand the full bore of one king’s madness, his own kings, then Kíli can surely handle another king’s petty cruelty.

Kíli tried to get his throat to work, his lips to move. He tried to think of what Fíli would say, because Fíli always knew what to say, soothing tempers and casting aside insult alike.

“Do you think sitting in your grand, high halls will protect you?” Kíli whispers. “Do you really believe that this is still the Green Wood of Old, that shadows have not fallen, that darkness has not infested your lands, that they still are, truly, _your_ lands? Hiding behind your borders and your walls will not save your people, Thranduil of the Wood. Your entire kingdom is _poisoned_ with malice, and I am _sorry_ for you.” Kíli rages, knowing horribly that he has failed miserably at imitating Fíli’s diplomatic graces. “But do not presume to tell me how to cure our ills when you have not lifted a finger to remedy your own.”

Dread silence falls in the Halls. Even the music stops playing.

It is broken by a laugh, a deep, booming laugh, as Dwalin is unable to contain himself at the stark shock on the Elvenking’s face.

“I was not in jest, Son of Fundin!” Kíli reels coldly, upset and fear heavy in his belly, dread clawing at his breath. Was this how often Fíli felt, facing Thráin? Treading every word and step and terrified he’d damned himself? “Keep your manner.” He orders.

Dwalin silences immediately, looking stricken.

Kíli turns back to face Thranduil, and refuses to cower. He can see both Tauriel and the Elvenprince from the corner of his eye, the latter with an expression so intense and inscrutable it defied understanding, and the former pale as frost and outright horrified. He refuses to tremble, and stubbornly determines that if he’s about to be killed for his efforts, then he won’t bother attempting to apologize. He wouldn’t mean it anyways, and he’s a terrible liar.

The shocked façade cracks, and Thranduil leans back, brows drawing together in irate contemplation. His lips purse, and his fingers drum, and when Gandalf looks as if he may speak, the Elvenking stays him with a hand, studying Kíli as if he’s suddenly turned into something fascinating and unexpected.

It is not precisely a scrutiny Kíli is comfortable with, but it is at least not so dreadful as the scrutiny Thráin gives Fíli.

“I may be misled.” Thranduil murmurs, mostly to himself. A cold smile flickers faintly to his lips. “Kíli, son of Vili, daughters-son of the King Under the Mountain, be welcome in my hall.” He calls out.

Kíli’s hands twitch, and his jaw works a little, and he finally manages to suck in a breath. “Thank you, King Thranduil.” He bows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realize writing it how this chapter would be blocked out, and it is an honest coincidence that these scenes are so parallel.  
> Also...Thranduil. Because Thranduil.


	6. Brightness, and Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about Fili's mental state, shall we?

Fíli’s head throbs, and his skin aches. He has been back and forth through near all of Erebor this day, and many days before it, and likely many days after. With his mother gone, Fíli must manage both Council and Court, within and without, and with _Kíli_ gone…

Fíli swallows the lump in his throat. He will neither whine nor whimper like a lost child, but he feels dreadfully alone.

The sunshine spilling into the Craft Halls of Erebor is the first real light he’s seen in days, and its warmth is a softer, smoother welcome than that of the forges which heated the deeper corridors and keeps.

But it still does not sooth. His eyes burn. Gold glitters from every corner, and he feels he cannot escape it. Not only his too-heavy, too-soft mail, but exchanging hands in coin, gleaming off fingers and ears alike, glittering in thread, polished on walls and inlaid in armor. The light of it swells, almost too-bright and painful to his eyes, and it seems to sing in his ears, high and shrill and he wants it silenced, less he deafen himself to be rid of it!

A wail bubbles in his throat, threatening release, and he is startled by a hand on his elbow. “You highness?” a Dwarf looks to him with a keen and concerned eye. Fíli blinks, taking in the tidy braids and topknot, their neat effection of the Dwarfs silver hair; the smooth skin of his bare knuckles and the clean, trimmed appearance of his nails. Not a smith or a carver, he judged, but wealthy. His clothes were of fine and pleasing make, but not overly rich, and the only gleaming glitter came from a modest silver clasp in his beard, the rings on his ears, and a fine ring on his pinky. A High Merchant, he supposed.

“At your service, Master Craftsman.” Fíli says absently.

“Dori the Tailor, Prince Fíli , at yours.” Dori bows deeply.

One of the Ri Clan, then. High Merchant indeed – that family had served the Court well for generations, and, at this moment, was serving it again, as Nori the Spy and Ori the Scholar headed for Moria.

“May I interest you in my Craft, My lord?” Dori inquires, though his hands are clasped solemnly before him, and his concerned eyes ask another question entirely. Perhaps more closely related to his spy that Fíli first presumed. There was something very familiar about his look and his bearing.

“I think…” _not_ , Fíli was going to say, glancing aside at the elegant arch, and the open shop beyond, where shelves were stacked high with bolts of fine cloth, and looms hid in the shadows, a few finished garment’s displayed forward, but his eyes caught on a spool of mithril thread in a glass case. He had little interest and little choice in his own wardrobe, filled with only those garments which satisfied Thráin’s rich taste and desire to display his nephew as the pride of his treasure-hoard. But Kíli…

His younger brother had been made into a shadow for decades, made dim and unremarkable when he was anything and everything else.

Fíli had been right about how clever mithril, opals and amber had looked in his brothers hair and hand. No gaudy, hateful gold or common silver, crusted in lurid jewels, but a brilliant shine and dazzling, pale fire, cascading with subtle colors…

Fíli stepped into the shop, the tailor bustling at his side. He drummed his fingers over the glass case, holding the expensive metal threads. He glanced up and around, gaze skimming bolts of cloth. “What do you have for copper?” He inquired. “And blue?”

Dori smiles, beaming proud and pleased and kindly. “I’ve just the thing.” He says.

~*~*~*~

Tauriel walks quietly beside him, her nervous twitching telling him that she wants to speak, to gain his attention and possibly his forgiveness, but he does not grace her with a glance. The canopy of trees hang gloomily above them, and the gulf of their peoples between them.

“Kíli, I-“ She finally speaks, and he stops abruptly and turns on her, dropping the reigns of his pony, which continues to plod along.

“I do not know what ill haunts your king, Captain, but I recognize that sick desperation in his eyes.” Kíli says sharply, heartsore and bitter. “I know it well, for I have seen it haunt my brother.” That knowing dread, as if he saw fire coming and could do nothing but stand in the flames, noble but hopeless. Except Thranduil buried his pain in anger and disdain, where Fíli hid his behind smiles and pretty lies.

Her eyes widen, and her lips part, startled. He growls, frustrated, and tears into the heart of the matter, the source of his hurt. “Do you really think I would abandon my brother? That I would leave him to drown in it, at the mercy of a mad king?” Kíli rages quietly, his heart a little broken. “Do you think so little of me?”

Perhaps elves and dwarves were too different a peoples to ever truly understand each other, but was the divide so wide that for all the years she had known him, small though their span may be in her eyes, she could think he lacked honor? Think he would be so craven or cowardly as to abandon his own brother?

Mutely, she shakes her head. “I spoke poorly, Kíli, I did not mean…” She pauses, and glances at the elves around them. “I have seen nothing but heart and courage, from you and your brother, but the madness of the King Under the Mountain shadows all.”

“Do you think we don’t know that?” Kíli whispers brokenly, fists clenching tightly, jaw grinding. He did not mean to glare at her, but he knew he was. They were not fools. Fíli did what he could, and even some things he could not. His brother was brave and just and what he could not do was not his fault.

“If it is truly so…hopeless, why have you not…” Tauriel looks away, her hands tightly clenched, her ears faintly red. She glances back at him, pity in her eyes, and sorrow. But she holds firm, and does not retract the query. It is no idle curiosity that made her ask. She _needs_ to know.

“Killed him?” Kíli scoffs bitterly, miserably. “I have thought of it,” He says, and her surprise is both gratifying and painful. “I have considered it at length, but ultimately I cannot. Don’t mistake me, it is not death I fear.” He pauses, and looks away into the wood, battling once more that storm in his chest. Fíli could claim to know every thought in Kíli's head and every stirring emotion in his heart, but this one thing, this one black, treacherous thing he had never confessed.

 “It…He loved us once, do you understand? That makes it worse, that he loved us once, before the madness. Could I kill him, remembering that? _Yes_.” Kíli bares that shame to her freely, because it is a burden upon his heart, and has been for years. “But you must understand me, Tauriel. I would do atrocious things to save my brother, but this I _cannot_. To kill ones own kin in defense of your life may be forgivable, with penance.” He trails off a moment, shaking his head. The bond Mahal blessed the seven brothers with was meant to be unbreakable, for what was all the wealth in the world worth, without family? What stone, what craft, what fire could mean more than the blood between you?

And yet it was Durin's own bloodline that fractured for cursed gold. A punishment Eru set upon their people, for daring to be born.

 “To kill a king, even a mad king, even a craven king, is _not_. His right to rule is divine. I do not fear for my life, I fear for my soul. Should I do it, by my hand or another, I will be denied the halls of my ancestors, and I would…I would never see my brother again.” Kíli chokes, because this is their greatest folly – that what gave him strength also made him weak. Such was the nature of love. “In this life or the afterlife. My brother, my mother, my father, my uncles….I love my family, Tauriel, I _cannot_ lose them. To be divided forevermore…my heart could not bear it.” Kíli shakes his head again, casting aside hope, his palms held empty and helpless. “And so….we suffer.”

The she-elf looks at him, lips parted, her forest eyes swimming with emotion, but she can find nothing to say. Eventually, her lips press together and she looks away, out into the trees. He studies the pale edges of her fine features, the way her hair gleams brightly even in evening’s shadows.

Her eyes scan their surroundings, and he is no fool to think her careful shift in stride, that draws her much closer to him, is anything but deliberate. “Do you ever think,” She whispers. “that there may be something greater at work than mere madness?”

Kíli does not glance sharply at her, does not tense or halt. He takes an even breath, and keeps pace with her, well aware of his company of dwarrows, and her company of elves, just slightly far enough away to have not heard her inquiry. She is cautious of this, whatever this is, and he will respect her trust. He does not speak – he has a dwarf’s voice, and even quietly meant, it carries. He looks down at the ground with a frown, and then up, towards the stars. Her chin tilts slightly towards him, and she breathes in quietly. Her fingers twitch, and Kíli clenches his own, reminding himself not to take her hand in his.

“I fear that an evil is coming forth in this world.” Tauriel whispers on the barest breath, his ears straining to catch it. “That what haunts your king, that what haunts mine, is not mere darkness. I believe it is _malice_ , Kíli.” Her whisper trembles slightly. “And I am afraid. Give me a _fight_.” She declares fiercely, knuckles white. “But this? It has no face. It has no name. It lacks shape and form and yet it creeps like poison among us. How do we protect our people?”

Kíli loosens a small throwing knife from his belt, and lifts it to her. Their fingers meet, and he clasps hers briefly as they pass the blade. “Together.” He promises solemnly.

Her faint smile flashes in the evening, and then the spiders drop out of the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Kili...  
> What is worse? To suffer? Or to watch those you love suffer?


	7. Sparks and Spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally in the middle of finishing a twelve page paper due tomorrow and worth most of my grade, and can't resist the urge to post more chapters. This is madness.

Fíli is locked in the treasury.

Fíli has been locked in the treasury for hours, and he has literally reached the point of screaming at the walls. He has beaten his fists bloody against the door, and shouted himself hoarse, but if there are guards beyond the great barred gate, either they do not hear him or they are too fearful of Thráin to heed him.

Fíli does not know what has set Thráin off now. All he knows is that his grandfather had burst into his private chambers in a furious, frantic frenzy, muttering and snarling about thievery and treachery and protecting what was precious, and it had been all Fíli could do to ensure his uncle didn’t drag him out naked from his bath.

He had pleaded and cajoled and yet nothing his said reached Thráin, who had hurried him along at frantic pace, with a grip like a vice on Fíli’s arms, barreling him towards the treasure halls. Thráin would not explain, and he would not be dissuaded.

So Fíli found himself vigorously embraced, and then abruptly abandoned, the doors sealing shut by Thráin’s absolute command with a dreadful thud of finality. So the Heir Under the Mountain was damp, clad only in his breeches – and he had had to fight to free himself enough to manage that much - and a white silk robe beaded with hundreds of tiny gems, diamond and ruby, topaz and sapphire, so fiercely faceted that he glittered like a beacon, worse than the mountains of gold around him.

Had it not been the only proper thing he had to wear, Fíli would have torn it to shreds just to relieve his frustration.

He had no idea what was going on. Had Erebor been attacked? Or was Thráin’s paranoia merely reaching new heights? Was the King murdering those who drew his suspicion, without Fíli there to buffer his madness? Had something happened, and Thráin declared war on Dale, or the Woodland Realm?

Fíli _didn’t know_ , and it was driving him _insane_. He didn’t know anything, and as the hours ticked past, his dread and fury over his own helplessness only grew. He could find no way out. The secret passages were known only to spies, and the others used by the bankers and scribes were all sealed, their doors invisible.

What he really, truly wanted, of course, was much simpler, and a tad more dire. He needed a latrine, but even that way was shut. In fact, as his bladder pressed more urgently, and Fíli was beginning to feel the mountain shift in his bones, sunrise surely coming up over the world, he was reaching a point of desperation where he was beginning to contemplate setting his legacy down in the history books as the prince who literally pissed on his grandfathers gold.

He lets out a ragged laugh at the thought, and it turns into a frustrated keen, his fingers buried in his golden, bedraggled tresses, tugging painfully at them, seated on an uncomfortable and altogether aggravating pile of silver bars.

“My lord, are you well?”

Fíli leaps to his feet, startled and elated to hear a voice, to spy a dwarrowdam peering at him in concern, a board laden with paper sheafs in her arms. Everything about her was a relief, her presence, her simple, dun-and-ivory robes, bearing the black knotwork of a treasury scribe. Her ordinary sable hair, though he was awed at the amount of effort it must take to braid it in that fashion, multitudes of delicate coils spiraling her hair in a part, turning it back like a rams horns, until it finished in fine rosettes. Even her tortoiseshell pins and ear cuffs where modest, soothing to his eyes after so much screaming, gleaming gold.

“What’s happened?” Fíli asks her, striding through coins scattered at his feet. “What has the King done? I’ve been locked in here for hours.”

Her dark, doe-like eyes, slightly too close together in her narrow face, thin quizzitively, and she shakes her head. “Nothing has been done of note, my lord.” She replies. “The king has been in the ledger room this morning, though I did hear he threw out his councilors from session. The Master of Coin complained about it.”

Fíli almost staggers with relief, that nothing dire has occurred save for his own inconvenience. “Thank you.” Fíli murmurs, covering his eyes with a hand, and errantly trying to push his hair back into order, suddenly aware of his rather distressed appearance.

“Would you like me to show you the way out, Prince Fíli?” She inquires, tucking her small ravens-feather quill into the simple coil tied of her beard, where it looked quite like it belonged.

“If the king returns to find me gone when he has _locked me in the treasury_ , heads will roll.” Fíli shakes his head. “No, I’m afraid I can’t leave, though I would be ever grateful if you could show me where to find the wash facilities.”

She hesitates a moment, and then nods sharply, turning to show him the way. He moves to follow, and trips up on the hem of the robe. “Bloody useless garment.” He curses, tugging sharply at it, and rearranging the folds, only finding a thought to spare for embarrassment or propriety _after_ he’s accidentally flashed his bare chest in the presence of a young dam.

“Not entirely useless, I’d say.” She murmurs, her expression stoic. Fíli draws a brow, and she looks up at him critically. “I imagine if I took you down a dark tunnel, the radiance alone would be enough to find my way.”

Fíli startles, and in that moment he sees an expression of sly humor behind her dark brown eyes so familiar he feels he’s known her his entire life. He barks out a breathless laugh, and her stoic façade cracks into a wide, freely crooked grin that makes his heart swell with relief.

“The Crown Prince of Erebor - would be honored –“ He wheezes “ - my lady - to serve as your humble torch.” He eventually manages to stutter out through his mirth, bowing and clutching his sides because he _is_ having trouble breathing. He hasn’t laughed in _ages,_ and the fit of snickering almost hurts.

Her grin softens into a familiar kind of sweet smile, and, just like his brother, she turns her face away to hide its affection.

Fíli, at that precise moment, _half-mad and sleep deprived_ , thinks he falls a little in love.

~*~*~

A sharp squeak Kíli will deny to his dying day wedges out of his mouth as a huge bulbous body crashes down on him and Tauriel – and if he shall deny his squeak, she shall ever deny that she shrieked. At the very least, she managed to turn her humiliation into a proper battle cry – Kíli did not have the breath remaining to do so.

The ponies rear and some bolt, knocking into dwarrows, elves, and spiders alike, and the world spins with the clatter of confusion.

He yanked a short throwing axe from his boot – borrowed from his brother – and hacked at spindly legs, toppling the creature and rending open its fat gullet, which oozed foul. It died twitching and hissing at a pitch sharp enough to curdle his ears, and Kíli threw himself towards the next one, providing Tauriel cover that she may recover and draw her bow.

The sharp twang is music to his ears, as he hacks at clacking fangs and bulbous, beady eyes. He is no stranger to the spiders in the woods, but they are also not usually so bold. Something foul burns red in their eyes this night, and the beasts come upon him with an unnatural frenzy.

A bright, booming flash of light tosses him briefly to the ground, and the wizards enchanted voice drives into his flesh and bones. The remaining spiders flee with great scurry, though a few more fall to arrows on their way, the elves furious and determined.

“What foul maker gave those creatures dominion on this earth…” Glóin mutters, gasping and bent over his knees. His red hair is washed grey by night and spiders-blood, and he is covered in an unkindly slime of bits and bodily juices. Kíli, unfortunately, is much the same.

One elf in their company has been stung, foam bubbling at their mouth as their fellows tend him. Tauriel orders two of her guards to carry the elf back on swift feet, that the healers may see properly to the poison. Her fair face looks deeply troubled, as she looks into the shadow of the woods.

“Is it safe to send them away?” Kíli asks her quietly, knowing more lurked under shadows boughs.

“The closer they get to the Elvenking’s halls, the safer they will be. We should continue through the night. If even this path is not safe, I dare not set us to sleep.” Tauriel says. Kíli nods agreement, though his dwarrows grumble and groan, and even a few elves mutter unhappily as everyone tries to reclaim their gear and mounts.

Gandalf leans wearily on his staff, and Kíli approaches him with his gratitude.

“Charlatan tricks, Master Dwarf.” Gandalf smiles kindly. “And you’ll note I was saving myself as well.” The wizened figure looks down at the dwarf, something curiously mournful in his ancient, piercing gaze. “I would caution you against relying on powers that may not be mine to summon, should the need arise again.” He warns lightly. “Many think wizards can perform miracles – but I am not the Valar. For this night, I shall accept your thanks with good heart, but be warned…some feats are beyond even me.” He says the last sadly, and Kíli wonders what friends in the past the wizard had lost to disappointment.

“I shall take you only as you are, Master Gandalf.” Kíli promises him. “And nothing more than that.”

Some of the shadows leave the wizards face, and his smile crinkled his twinkling eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should probably be noted that I am doing my best to break these chapters up between Fili and Kili, and in doing so their timelines do not necessarily match.  
> Also, I am more and more considering rewriting this one day (once it's all finished, of course) to include more world-building details. Sometimes i slip between Dwarves and Dwarrows (Tolkeins preferred term) and in other fics (not posted) there are distinctions in elvish terminology as well that i may go back to this one and fix. For now, bear with me.  
> Also also, i'm trying to give a larger role to the background characters as well, but i find writing them is proving difficult in this fic. Working on it.


	8. Dreams of Gold

Fíli has difficulty waking from his nightmares – and with good cause. For, when gold fills both dreams and reality, how is one to know the difference? He gasps awake certain he is drowning in it, only to find himself surrounded by a sea of glittering coins.

Lîm, daughter of Nîm, who is much not amused by the fact that Fíli mostly occupies the section of treasury floor she is responsible for – and therefor makes her work difficult by toppling carefully stacked coins and moving about precious treasures – finds him the simple solution of a blindfold, to ease his mind.

Once his whereabouts where made known, helpful souls had provided him with a proper cot and desk to sleep and work from, and he is regularly brought fresh clothes and hearty meals by servants who have his utmost envy for their ability to simply come and go through the passages. Confined as he is, his councilors, advisers, and spies must now seek him here, and if any of them find it alarmingly discomfiting to come upon their prince and find him sitting on a stack of silver bars with blindfold in place and his eyes darkened to the world, none remark on it.

Thráin spends more time than ever in the treasury, with his prize possessions all hoarded in one place, and that is both a relief and a burden – for with Thráin here terrorizing Fíli, he is at least not terrorizing his people – but also with Thráin constantly _here_ , Fíli can neither escape him nor work around him.

So he must trust his allies to work diligently and secretively in his stead, and his spies to be ever light of foot and finger, ever keen of eye and ear, and show much good sense in waking the prince in the dead of night, to report to him when he is at last _alone_.

Fíli is restless, but he has long practice quelling such restlessness, though trapped in here with Thráin’s great horde makes it worse than ever, as if it will claw open his heart and tear through his breast to be free. He has few friends, for all he is well liked by his people – for few can be too close to that which Thráin’s prizes, without repercussion – but those that are brave and careful come at times to distract him, perhaps recognizing his dire need for distraction.

Balin brings him his fiddle, and will often set aside his lessons and his long reports for simpler things – music, and strategy games, and the occasional pipe of sweet-leaf, though it earns them both the bankers displeasure – they seem mightily concerned that smoke may tarnish the treasure. Frankly, Fíli doesn’t care if it all tarnishes and blackens into worthlessness, save only that he would _still_ be trapped with it.

Bofur, one of Dwalin’s most trusted companions in the Royal Guard, would visit him for a spar, or for mere company. He had a good voice and a likeable manner, and told his tales well, his clever fingers whittling fine toys as was his pastime. His kin were accompanying Kíli on quest, and though they didn’t speak directly of it, they both managed to offer comfort to each-others worries. Fíli admired the surprising strength of the Guards arm, and sparring soothed his dislike for idleness, but it was perhaps his good cheer that Fíli valued most, drawing the crown prince out of his own black moods.

Dori the tailor even managed to slip in, and though he was fussy and far less familiar, Fíli enjoyed exploring sketches and colors for the dwarf’s craft, thinking up new gifts for his brother, whom he missed dearly. Dori had a particular eye for keen details, and though he tutted at the idea of attempting to fit garments for a Prince who _was not there_ , his eyes gleamed at the challenge, and he had an admirable and clever ability to get Fíli to feel as being a prince is something other than a punishment, which even Balin struggled to do.

Still, their company was often sparse and short-lived, for Thráin did not like them to dwell among his treasures, for all that Fíli argued of the need for his advisers and councilors – after all, was it not still his responsibility to prepare for the grand Durin’s Day celebration? And would not that require a bolstering of the Royal Guard? And perhaps a new tunic for the occasion?

Thráin would eventually subside, soothed by his golden grandson and his great treasure hoard and the certainty of his reign, but Fíli kept his company at bay in fear anyways.

At the moment, he had just endured another long and exhausting argument with his grandfather, pleading and flattering in turns in the barest hopes of at least perhaps taking a walk as far as the Grand Hall, officially for matters regarding the upcoming party (unofficially for his own sanity), to no avail. As the great doors sealed between him and his grandfather once more, Fíli snarled and took out his anger on a large chest of coins. He took vicious pleasure in watching them scatter, ringing and clattering across the marble.

“Must you have done that?” Lîm cries out, somewhat distraught as she hurries between towers of gold, her ledgers in hand and her sleeve stained with ink. Her beard, confined to her lower jaw as it was, was plaited into a delicate knot below her chin, her hair ever elaborately coiled and dressed with simple, pearl-tipped pins.

The sight of her was a relief, and Fíli immediately felt guilty. Unfortunately, he also knew that the sickening pit that suddenly clenched in his stomach would not be enough to prevent him from a similar outburst later. He could only bottle up so much of himself without breaking completely. He needed to vent.

“I’m afraid so.” Fíli replies, though he does right the chest, and start collecting the spilled coins back up. She swats him with her ledger when he tries to toss them back in the chest.

“I have to count them.” She admonishes him. “Little good it would do me to put them all in and pull them all back out!”

“My apologies.” Fíli mutters, still a little surprised at the sting of her swat. And that she had swatted him in the first place – he, the crown prince of Erebor! Perhaps it should not delight him so, to be treated so familiarly.

“Can you not, perhaps, do such things in another scribes sector, the next time?” She grumbles, giving him a short nod to acknowledge his contrition. Fíli grins at the suggestion, and earns himself a pointed look from her lovely dark eyes. “My ledgers are the messiest in all the guild because of you, Prince Fíli.” She says dryly.

“Well if it is according to my fault, then you may tell your guildskin to address their complaints unto me, my lady.” Fíli says cheekily.

“ _I’ll_ address my complaints unto you.” She mutters with a roll of her eyes, stacking precariously tall towers of coin with absent-minded precision, neatly adding their tally with the _scritch-scritch_ of her quill on paper.

“And I shall hear them all gladly.” Fíli says, stricken with his own infatuation of her. “For all words from your lips are a gift, which I covet far better than treasure.”

The moment the words are out of his mouth he wants to bury himself in embarrassment, and can feel himself blush to the tips of his ears, his cheeks aflame, but the only places to hide are among hills of gold, and nothing could stir him towards them.

“I- I – I’ll just- erm…” Fíli stutters, stands up hastily and bows deeply, and then flees back to his cot and his desk, leaving her bewildered expression and _her_ blush behind him. He buries his face in his hands and groans, and wishes Kíli were here to tease him madly and then offer him solace.

It has been decades since Fíli felt he made such a fool of himself.

~*

~*

The farther they get from Thranduil’s seat of power, the more sinister the forest around them seems to grow. The air stands too still and stifled. The wildlife too quiet.

Even the elves seem to suffer, their vitality flagging under sickly trees, their breathing slightly raspy, as if it took them more effort to draw air, as if they could not get enough. The sylvan elves, at least. The silver-haired sindarin elves seemed uneasy, but they did not seem to suffer so, the way the sylvan elves suffered, in tune with the realm around them.

They pass through one truly darkened dell, where gnarled roots weep blackly and all the living things are withered, and Kíli notices Tauriel and a few of her red-haired fellows pale and shiver, their footsteps dragging for all they seemed to wish to hurry past.

Her green gaze meets his sharply, and he understands what she means about malice.

The wizard watches the trees mournfully, and remains troubled. He urges them to move on, and move swiftly.

All of them sleep poorly, and Kíli is so unsettled – by the wood, by the journey ahead, and by leaving his brother behind – that he only ever allows them a few hours at a time, to sleep and stop only when they cannot go on. He is constantly on edge, wary of spiders and heart-sick of all thoughts of his uncle, suffering in Moria, and yet his nightmares are filled with gold, and sometimes when he wakes he wants to run all the way back to Erebor, to his brother, just to assure himself that Fíli  is safe. That Fíli  is well.

“Steady, lad.” Dwalin murmurs gruffly, one heavy hand squeezing Kíli’s shoulder, when he cries out in his sleep and bolts to his feet. Kíli gasps for air and bends double, bile burning in the back of his throat as he works to calm himself. Kíli grips the opal-amber ring tightly, until it cuts into his hand. Everything in the atmosphere around him feels fetid, but the light off the ring his brother forged is pure and true, and the pain is grounding.

They can just see the brightening of the forest gate, leading out, when a horn blows high and clear behind them, and the elves all halt.

“What?” Kíli whips around, hands knocking his bow without thought. “What is it?” He asks sharply, as all his dwarrow bristle, weapons at the ready.

“We must wait.” Tauriel says, her own hands clasped on her daggers, though her brow is furrowed with a frown.

“The entrance is right there!” Glóin growls out. “Can we not wait beyond the wood?”

Kíli is in much agreement with Glóin, as is the rest of his company, but the wizard looks thoughtful, leaning on his staff and looking back into the forest, and Tauriel shoots Kíli a beseeching glance.

“We wait.” Kíli commands, though his stomach clenches. He has joined the guard on patrol, and hunting parties in the hills, and he has conducted himself as an ambassador in the markets of Dale and on the docks of Esgaroth, but he is ever unused to actual command. It feels unwieldy on his tongue and unbalanced in his grasp.

He has never envied Fíli’s role, for he has never wanted Fíli’s responsibilities.

They watch a horse and rider appear on the path, and Kíli shivers when he realizes that they cannot hear its hooves echo, and that is _wrong_. The Elvenprince rides up to them on a bronze mare, which is sweat-streaked and bellowing from a long gallop. Her rider bends to soothe the mare’s neck before addressing the party, calling out to Tauriel in the sindarin tongue.

Surprise flickers across the Captain’s face, followed quickly by relief, before it is all wiped away. The Elvenprince dismounts and shoulders a pack from the horse’s saddle, before turning her reigns over to another elf.

Kíli bites his tongue in suspicion, for before he speaks Kíli knows what he is to say – the prince is no longer garbed in silver and circlet. He is dressed in sturdy greens and greys, with light armor if any at all, and a travelling cloak.

“Prince Kíli.” Prince Legolas inclines his head, his face lightly flushed and his hair ruffled by a hard ride. He looks younger, somehow, away from his father’s halls. “You spoke brashly in my fathers company, but you spoke true as well. There is an ill in our realm and we cannot do nothing. I will travel to Rivendell to seek the council of my kin, if you would oblige and accept my company.”

Kíli feels torn, for they are not equals, and it is not the place of a crown prince makes a request of a set-aside heir, and yet, at that moment, he recognizes the truth. That they are both one and the same, he and the silver-haired elf. Princes who would never be king. For Fíli was first in line, and would inherit Thráin’s throne, and Thranduil was immortal, and never to leave his own.

It settles his nerve, and he clears his throat. “Well met or ill met, are those on the road. And is stranger friend, or is stranger foe?” It’s an old phrase, from a long forgotten poem, but Kíli remembers the line, and thinks it apt. “If you’d accept my sword, I’d accept your bow.” Kíli finishes with his own clever twist. It’s an elegantly simple offer of fellowship, without the prejudice or pride between Dwarves and Elves to come between them.

Humor lights in the Elvenprince’s eyes, and he nods his gratitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanted to get the company in the story, and in an unfinished revision of the Hobbit, Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur were supposed to be a sort of honor guard for Thorin, so i played off that a bit and made Bofur part of the royal guard.


	9. Fire and Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done with finals, hurrah!  
> Also reaching the last of that which is have already written, so updates will likely slow down from here on, but i'd like to keep my momentum for writing this story, so hopefully i'll still be up to posting one or twice a week!

The lamps are low and guttering in the treasury, and the glow from the daylight shafts has waned into evening, but the Arkenstone shines regardless, like a star unto itself, if far more gentle.

Silver-blue light reflects off gleaming gold, and pierces shadow, and Fíli sits with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, trying to ignore it. His grandfather sits beside him, a mountain of armor and ornament-laden hair, close enough for the weight of him to press against his grandsons side, both of them perched on a long chest of dalish coin, freshly minted for Dale’s king and soon to ship out, if Thráin will allow it. The coins are copper. He might.

In the meantime, Thráin stares into the depths of his most prized jewel, the cold, fierce love of it filling his eyes, and has for at least the last long, silent hour.

Even through his eyelids, Fíli can feel the piercing call of the stones soft radiance, can practically hear its soothing lullaby pulsing in his ears. There are times like this, times when shutting his eyes, when blindfolding himself, is not enough. Times when he wants to take a blade to his eyes and be _done_ with it.

For surely blindness could save him from the madness? For surely he could not be ensnared by treasures he could not see?

“Fíli?”

The crown prince startles, and opens his eyes. The light of the Arkenstone is slightly dimmed, blocked by Thráins thick fingers, which grip it tightly, but his gaze has turned away from it – his gaze lies with his grandson.

It is strange, to hear his name properly from his grandfathers lips, when Thráin so often calls him something else. His heir. His golden grandson. His precious.

Thráin blinks, his crystal blue eyes shuttering for a moment, as his gaze is cast around the tall shadows of the treasury, and the dim burn of the blocks upon blocks of gold and gems, and then on his grandson, who looks wan and unkempt and a little afraid, looking back at him.

A heavy hand lifts, laden with rings, and his fingertips brush the barest side of Fíli’s face.

“What have I done to you?” Thráin whispers quietly. The Arkenstone seems to burn in his hands, but his eyes – there is pain in his eyes. Dread. He looks suddenly old, suddenly every day of his three hundred years. There are moments like this, wretched moments, when his mind clears, and he remembers.

Fíli used to prize these moments, all his hopes turning on the barest glimpse of them.

But those days are years gone by. He knows better now.

These moments make everything worse.

The old dwarf trembles. “My treasure upon treasures.” His words twist, full of bitterness and sorrow and horror. “Will you forgive me for this?”

Fíli stares back at him, with crystal blue eyes, and can say nothing.

“I feel…I feel…” Thráin murmurs absently, drawing his hand away. His fingers are drawn back to the stone, covetous and full of need. “I slip away.” Thráin rasps. “I feel cold. The world is cold. The living are cold. Do you not see the fire?” Thráin asks him urgently. He holds up the stone in his fist, between them. “Can you feel its warmth? Do you not see the fire?”

The Arkenstone burns. The gold burns. Silver, gemstone and jewel – it _burned_ , bright and shrieking.

“I see it.” Fíli confesses, the flicker of the flames bright in his eyes.

~*~*~*~

Dwarrows, as a kindred, were fire-forged and stone-born. They found peace in deep tunnels and hidden rivers, their eyes were made for sunless caverns and their hearts for the mountain halls.

But stepping out under that open sky, into sunshine and stirring breezes, still felt like a blessing.

Kíli pushed his company away from the oppressive shadow of the wood an into the open glade, where they could hitch their ponies to a happy oak, freshen up and fill their skins from a nearby brook, and take a rest against some properly solid boulders after the hard press through the forest. Kíli and Dwalin watch as most of the elves depart after a short reprieve, and take note that Legolas and Tauriel do not.

“Elves.” Dwalin mutters lowly, shrugging his axes off his shoulders and propping them on the stone beside him. “Mention was not made that we’d be travelling with bloody elves.”

Kíli gives his captain of the guard a long, searching look as Dwalin rolls his shoulders and cracks his knuckles, rubs his neck and sighs, giving his prince a disgruntled glance back before rolling his eyes in surrender. He may not be happy about their company, but he will not make trouble.

He feels guilty enough still about what occurred in the Elvenking’s halls.

Kíli reaches out and grips his arm briefly in gratitude before stretching his legs and moving to check on each member of his company.

“Made it through much better than I thought we would!” Bombur tells him cheerily, setting up a fire-pit to cook from and tallying their rations. They neither ate as much nor stayed as long in the woods as he had expected, given the circumstances, and it seems there was some good to come of it, regarding their provisions, at least.

Óin is checking on the wound Nori received in the spider skirmish when Kíli approaches them, and the wizened healer gives him a quick, firm once over while he’s there.

“How are your supplies?” Kíli inquires, knowing Óin had used up some of what he’d brought far earlier than they’d expected after the spider attack, on dwarrows, ponies, and elves alike.

“What about your eyes?” Óin asks, bringing their faces close together and pressing his thumbs around Kíli’s brows to get a better look.

“Supplies.” Kíli repeats, raising his voice for the deafened dwarf. “Your _supplies_!”

Nori snickers and slinks off while the chance is presented – spies were private fellows and didn’t much like people in their personal business, healers included. He joins his brother Ori, tending the ponies.

“Eh, I’ll make do.” Óin informs him, with a stout clap on the shoulder than makes the younger dwarf stagger. “Might need a helpful pair of keener eyes, but we can find much of what I might need growing wild.” His gestures to the lightly wooded hills and the road ahead with optimism. Kíli nods and moves on.

Bifur has taken up a collection and is neatly mending torn cloth and leather while Glóin scrubs those garments among the group that received the worst of the filth from the spiders and the forest and lays them out to dry. He also tries vainly to get the crusty remains out of his hair and beard as well.

‘ _I keep telling him he’ll be better served by a proper soak and scrub than that fussy preening.’_ Bifur signs with keen fingers and rolled eyes. ‘ _But none of the others will hear of it – bathing in front of elves._ ’

The look the old warrior gives him clearly implies that he finds Kíli to be part of this foolishness, and indeed the young prince _was_ rather rank. He’d been itchy with spiders blood and bits for days, never mind the grime in his hair or his own sweat.

Bifur, for all he looked mad, was a rather neat fellow, from the carefully parred black-and-silver braids to his studious mending and the clean repair of his clothes. As an old scout from Azanulbizar, he’d have been on his own and in the rough often, and in orc territory to boot. Orcs, Kíli knew, had a sense of smell far keener than that of dwarrows, and discovered more than a few of Bifur’s inexperienced counterparts by that alone, to the dismay of their brethren.

Kíli frowns across at the elves, where Tauriel and Legolas are sorting their own packs on a patch of grass, and, judging by their quick glances and hushed gestures, trying to decide if they ought build their own fire or request to join Bombur at the dwarrows. Gandalf, Kíli notes, has no such qualms, and has settled himself near the large dwarf, blowing smoke rings with his pipe and chatting merrily.

The sun is shining, the day is warm, and, if he does nothing, Kíli’s undershirt will surely gain sentience and likely one with foul intent. So the prince nods sharply to Bifur and then peels out of his gore-stiffened jacket and strips to the waist, kicking off his boots and socks, the last of which is foul enough to make him wince after days of slogging along.

Dwalin doesn’t notice until Kíli actually steps into the water, the chill of it blissfully soothing against his abused feet, and the guardsman squawks a little, rising to his feet and marching over. “Lad, what do ye think yer doing?” He grunts, accent thicker in anger, hands landing on his hips and his mustache bristling as he glances suspiciously at the elves.

Kíli darts further into the pooled bend in the channel, foul clothes in hand, before the guard can lunge to haul him out. “I’m giving myself a wash, Dwalin.” Kíli tells him, just a hint of a tease in his voice. Dwalin reddens a little in anger at his cheek.

He dunks his head down, shivering at how frigid the cool water feels against his scalp, and soaks his hair through quickly, all but forcing his fingers through the strands. “Unless you’d like me to catch my death of infection the next I so much as get a scrape?” He adds, his attempt at stoic bearing ruined by the chatter of his teeth.

Dwalin looks peeved, but contains himself to a dissatisfied grunt, and plants himself between the brook and the elves. “On with it then.” He grumbles.

Glóin, who will not let it be said he is afraid to follow where his prince might lead, finally gives in and resigns himself to a proper river-scrub as well, elves or no elves.

Kíli uses sand to scrub the glue-like clods from his hair and the grime from his skin, leaving it red from the abrasiveness but otherwise well-cleaned, and Óin rations him a bit of soap, for which he is grateful.

He scrubs his clothes as quickly as possible and trudges back out of the water, laying them out to dry. Dwalin snags him by the shoulder and looms dangerously close. “If you’ve a mind to be changing those trousers, you will _not_ be stripping full in front of _elvish_ folk, lad.” He growls.

Kíli glances at the elves in question, who are rather determinedly turned away from the dwarrows at the water, but concedes regardless and slinks over to the other side of the ponies to change, Dwalin sending him off with a shove.

Kíli gives his pony a pat when he’s dressed, and spends a full minute looking around, seeking someone out, before he realizes he’s looking for Fíli.

But his brother isn’t with him. There will be no sneaking back into the royal chambers to sit in front of the hearth and lean against his brother while Fíli fusses over the state of his dark hair. No riding back to the mountain as night falls and chasing shadows till he finally finds Fíli arguing with scholars, or sequestered with his spies, or hiding in the grand kitchens, ostenably checking reports on Erebors stores and in reality sneaking buttered cakes and avoiding Thráin’s eye like they were tweenlings again. Kíli is farther from home than he has ever been, and he still has a long ways to go.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Kíli tugs free the knots in his damp hair, and joins Gandalf by the fire.


	10. Easier said...

Fíli is getting out.

He has to get out.

He has to.

If he doesn’t, he will fail. He knows he will fail. The gold will consume him and Erebor will fall.

He has to get out.

Flickering light dances off towers of gold, like fairies running over hills, cheerful shoots and starts of light, and the faintest, teasing whisper of music in his ears, luring him in. He can _hear_ it. When it sings, when it shrieks, when it whispers, sometimes so subtle he forgets the ringing in his ears, but it is never silent. Not here in the treasury, where there is no escape.

“Erebor will fall _._ ” He reminds himself, seeking strength, his eyes burning as he waits by the hidden doors, for one of his spies to come.

_Erebor is stone._ Great columns and pillars of solid, enduring stone. Unyielding slopes and deep roots, running with rivers of gold and precious metal, gem and jewel. _A mountain cannot fall_.

“Erebor is more than a mountain.” Fíli whispers into shadows, pressing back against the wall. The marble is cool against his skin, its foundation deep, its surface flecked with common jade. Stone did not sing, the way gold did. Stone hummed, and drummed, deep in his bones. Stone was _felt_ , and it wanted nothing from him. Gold, on the other hand, wanted everything.

Erebor was not this wretched room, was not her great gates and cold slopes. Erebor was his people. Erebor was the fire in the forges and the light that spilled from the daylight shafts, the ravens that played on the hill, chasing after children’s tresses and making them shriek with laughter, and the great markets full of color and voices. Erebor was Dori the Tailor, who wove fine cloth and mulled over the palette in his wine glass. Erebor was Bofur of the Guard, who swung a hammer like thunder breaking and always had a wink and a laugh for anyone close enough to catch. Erebor was Lîm the Treasury Scribe, whose hands were stained with ink and who never had a hair out of place. Erebor was Balin the Royal Scholar, who always had an apt story to tell and a complaint to make. Erebor was Kíli.

_People fade._ Thrain, whittled away day by day until a dragon’s lust wore his skin. _People break._ Dis, his mother, who once would have defied the Valar themselves to do what she believed was right, her voice growing smaller and her eyes casting down in the face of injustice after injustice. _People die._ Uncle Frerin, who promised his nephews he’d teach them to ride rams when he returned, and whom never came back. _People leave._ Kíli, slipping away between one long hour and the next. _Erebor is eternal._ Like metal and stone. _Is it not said that those are truly dwarvish blood and dwarvish bone?_

Strands of gold and precious facets of glittering gem. Gloriously wrought mail and lovingly shaped rings. Where these not the treasures of his people? The fruit of their labors and the legacy of their endeavors? This here before him, in these halls, kept safe, would endure. This was the wealth of his people. _This is Erebor._

“No it isn’t.” Fíli insists, hands digging into his hair as he squeezes his eyes shut. “No it isn’t.”

He has to get out. He’s slipping. He has to get out.

~*~*~

They can hear the Anduin long before they can see it, and when they finally come down into the valley and can see it – Kíli is dazzled. The River Running is not nearly so wide, at least not so far as it passes within Erebor’s borders, and to Kíli the Anduin is more as if he is seeing what the lake would look like, given force. The water surges and churns powerfully in the center, for all it seems meek enough at the edge, and Kíli can see the danger Gandalf spoke so gravely of now, for all he still admires its beauty.

“I wish my brother could see this.” Kíli murmurs, bringing his pony close to the edge, where he can see minnows dart in the shallows, and water grasses dance, and specks in the sand gleam like gold.

As dwarflings, Kíli had always been content, playing in the silver fountains and the underground pools, but Fíli had always been wistful for far off places, for the ocean, captured still in painted oils, for the great falls of Rivendell, done half justice in the fading glory of old tapestries, for the steaming lakes of Ered Lithui, known of only in tales, for now they lay far too close to Mordor to venture.

Fíli had always known that Erebor was his destined kingdom, but all he’d ever truly wanted was a chance to see the world first. Kíli feels a fool for realizing only now that Fíli must have given up that dream, like he’d given up so many others. The young dwarf bows his head, and swears that he _will_ complete this task, that he _will_ find Thorin, and one day, once it has all been set right, he _will_ take his brother here, and show him this.

He will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, super short chapter, but its rather a set up for the next chapter and I wanted to give you _something._


	11. ...Than done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long stretch between updates, I was travelling for work and not available for two weeks. Also, this part of the plot is killing me, I just keep trying to get Fili back among Erebor, and Kili across the damn Anduin River, and yet...

~*~*~

Fíli makes it three paces into the passage before the entryway shuts behind them. The sudden seal into darkness, the sudden quiet, almost brings him to his knees. He staggers, fingers scraping along narrow stone walls, and has one blaringly confusing moment where he isn’t sure whether to laugh or breathe, whether his heart needs to beat or stop.

What happens instead is that he stands very still. He stands very still in absolute darkness and he listens. He listens for that coy little whisper that curls through his thoughts, for the echo of the ringing in his ears that came with light shining off of gold.

Fíli hears none of it, sees none of it, and all he feels is cold.

He shivers.

“This way, your highness.” His spy murmurs, after a moment in the dark. They make their way by feel alone, and the spy’s familiarity with the passages, for even dwarves cannot see in pitch black.

Every step they take away from the treasury makes Fíli cringe, makes his heart pound and thunder, and a cold sweat dampen his hands, and his neck. Even his breath feels too loud. He feels trapped. He feels hunted. He feels as if any moment they will be found and then – and then-

He isn’t sure what he fears will happen then. He only knows that he fears it. That he fears it enough to have to bite his tongue to bleeding to stop himself from crying out, from demanding they go back.

Back to all of that shining, whispering, burning gold.

His spy opens another passage, to a room so rough-hewn he knows it hasn’t seen a craftsman since the first halls where struck from solid stone. Another one of the Order’s little hidey holes. A fire burns in a small hearth, and a silver fountain burbles on the far wall. Several of his councilors rise from around a long, low table set in the center, and Balin greets him by clasping his hands.

“It’s good to see you, laddie.” He says, squeezing his fingers briefly. “We’ve much to discuss while we can.” Fíli nods tightly back, scanning the room. Gold beads gleam in the Master of Coin’s beard, diamond and onyx from the fingers of the Master Scribe, silver chains of emeralds in the grey hair of the Mining Master-

“Prince Fíli?”

“Lad?”

“A moment,” and familiar voice says, pleasingly crisp and unexpected. “A moment, will you?”

Fíli doesn’t realize he’s bent double, gasping for air, until Lîm rights him back up to pull him from the room. He stumbles after her, a sharp acid bile in his throat as echoes burn in his vision. Balin’s ruby-encrusted boots, the spy’s gold rings, the Master Cook’s bright copper belt, studded with bars of fire agate-

The sudden strike of breeze is almost worse than a blow. Wind rustles through his hair and scrapes across his skin, chill and ticklish and almost completely alien.

Fíli sucks in a deep breath, his eyes held shut, and he can taste the damp of the lake, and the green sap from the woodland, and the light perfume of the heather on the heath between them.

“You can open your eyes, you know.” Lîm says softly.

Fíli shakes his head, breathing in deep. “I…can’t.” Fíli admits. “I’m afraid.” He huffs, and leans into the next gust of wind.

She is quiet a moment, and he wants to see her, to see what she’s thinking, but...he just can’t. His fists clench and his chest tightens and he wants to roar, because he can’t. It isn’t fair. It had taken _so_ much, just to get out of the treasury, only to find himself once more surrounded.

He couldn’t do it again, he couldn’t.

“What are you afraid of, Prince Fíli?” Lîm inquires, her voice barely carried on the breeze.

“…gold.” Fíli confesses, wondering how she wasn’t. How all of them weren’t terrified, having watched what gold did to Thrór, to Thráin. Did they not too stand on the precipice? Did they not fear the fall?

There is a light drumming, and he can picture her tapping her fingers on her wrist in thought. “Your hair is gold.” She comments abruptly.

“I-“ he huffs a startled laugh. “I’m aware of that.”

They both know that isn’t what he meant.

“That’s the only gold out here, Prince Fíli.” She says, with practical reassurance. “The nights sky is blue on black on velvet, studded with burning stars. The moon is half a silver eye, and the lake is moonlight on midnight. Dale is full of bright beacons – orange on red from the torches, and the towers and arches are grey on shadow.”

She paints a stark picture with simple words, and he wants to see the world as she describes it. He _wants_ to see it.

“Are you trying to tell me there’s nothing to fear?” Fíli asks, the pit in his stomach still roiling, his throat still feeling too tight.

“I don’t know if I can tell you that. I don’t know if anyone can.” The scribe says sincerely, with a sadness in her voice that makes him want to reach for her, or hide from her. He doesn’t do either. “But I am trying to tell you that there is more out there than just what you fear.”

The words hurt, the way coming up for air hurts, the way striking his first hammer in the forge hurt. She’s right. He knows she’s right. The entire point of leaving the treasury was because she’s right on that.

“More than just what I fear?” Fíli repeats, seeking courage. His fists feel like ice, clenched so tightly, and he shudders, fighting to convince himself to open his eyes.

She doesn’t respond. Perhaps that would have been too easy, for her to respond, to say something, anything, to give him the strength he needed. _Erebor’s kings are given many things_ , Uncle Thorin had told him once. _Easy wasn’t one of them_.

Fíli looks, and at first the world blurs, nothing but red and white on black, but his eyes adjust, and she was right, about the stars and the lake and the arches. It’s beautiful.

She’s little more than a brown shadow with a pale face in the dark maw of the doorway, but when he glances aside at her, she has a sweet smile, and the approval in her eyes is better than sunshine, but just as warm.

_The living are cold._ Fíli flinches, feeling Thráin’s whisper in his ear, but refuses to close his eyes again. They water a bit, and he looks back over Dale and Esgaroth and the Woodland realm.

“I suppose I have to go back inside.” Fíli eventually sighs, his heart thudding in his chest, fear creeping acidly back up his throat.

Her smile turns apologetic. “Our people need you, Prince Fíli.” She says. “Which I am afraid means that you do have to go back inside.”

Fíli swallows, and nods sharply, but before he turns towards the dark maw of the mountain, he looks west. West, over the woodland realm, to the black horizon beyond. Kíli is out there somewhere now, beyond the world he can see from the lonely mountain. Kíli is out there now, because Fíli sent him, to go to the one place all other dwarrow will not go, to the place all other dwarrow now fear to.

 To Moria, to the dark depths of Khazad-Dum, towards a place of danger and death. Fíli lifts his eyes a moment, and thinks of praying, and instead bites his tongue and grinds his heels into the stone and dust beneath him, into the strength of the mountain.

“He will not fail.” Fíli swears to Mahal, to Durin, to his own quivering spirit. “Watch over him. He will not fail.”

It’s not the most reverent thing to say to the Valar and the ancestors, but Mahal had not made his people humble in the first place. Of all the Valar, he was the one who most admired those who would not bow or bend the knee.

_He will not fail._ Fíli insists, in his heart of hearts, and looks back into the tunnel. _And neither can I._

~*~*~*~

“The Old Ford will take us to the High Pass.” Gandalf explained, once more, to deafened Óin, who had not heard him the first three times and likely would not understand him the fourth either. “Which shall take us over the Misty Mountains and place us squarely on the road to Rivendell.”

The Wizard looked rather exasperated, faced with Óin’s incomprehension and Glóin’s skepticism.

To be fair, Kíli was skeptical as well.

As they travelled, the Anduin had continued to widen, and widen, and the rush of the river had turned into a roaring. Sunlight and moonlight sparkled off green water that broke with a spray of white around rocks and fallen trees, and the occasional stumbling pony. The dwarrow had grown increasingly concerned as to why they did not cross, before the river turned well enough into an ocean.

“Because, Master Dwarf,” Gandalf had claimed gamely, to a bristling Dwalin. “We are seeking a bridge, and we will find that bridge ahead of us.”

The supposed bridge which was, as Kíli understood it, in the Old Ford.

Dwarrow were no stranger to bridges, of course, many having littered the arching streets of Dale, and the mezzanine of walkways that made up the Lake-city Esgaroth, and within Erebor itself, bridging underground towers and palisades.

What they struggled with was the magnitude. The river before them was far wider than any bridge span any dwarf of Erebor had ever seen, and the current too deep and swift for laying pylon foundations without the help of the ancient stone giants themselves. Yet Gandalf merely smiled, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Is it magic?” Ori inquired, with innocent curiosity.

“ptuh.” Dwalin scoffed, rolling his eyes and bristling at the very notion, and Nori eyed first his brother, and then the wizard, with a keen and narrowed eye.

“Not in so far as I am aware, young Ori.” Gandlad sighed, his smile a little strained.

Ori frowned and huddled into his sweater, looking disheartened and rather nervous. “I don’t trust it.” He muttered, for which Glóin and Bifur promptly agreed.

Kíli himself would rather have crossed farther north, taking the ferries down the Hoarwell, through the Mountains and all the way down to the East-West Road, as those who travelled to Ered Luin would have done. Unfortunately, the ferries which had left with his mothers’ caravan had not yet returned, the upriver trek much slower going than the one on the way down.

“It would be a marvelous thing, wouldn’t it, Prince Kíli?” Bombur nudges him with an elbow, his auburn mustache stretched with a smile. “A bridge as that can span a small sea.” He sweeps a hand out towards the far bank, which gets ever farther and farther.

“That it would.” Kíli agrees, feeling a little less…daunted, by the mere prospect of the thing. Bombur claps him on the shoulder and urges his pony ahead, towards Bifur, whose muttering darkly from where his mount trots at the waters edge.

The overcast sky turns blue-green water to a drearier grey, and dulls the green on the hills and the trees, which thin out shortly after a drizzly ort of mist starts coming down on their heads.

“Curse this wet!” Dwalin complains, for he’s had little else to complain of, and the lack of a good roaring argument has made him irritable, or at least more so. The bold warrior had been withdrawn and morose, more and more so, and Kíli struggled to find ways to draw him from it.

“You’d think dwarves were such homely creatures.” Kíli hears the Elvenprince mutter. “To be undone by such silly things as bridges and rain.”

Kíli grits his teeth, but it is, to his surprise, Gandalf who intercedes.

“Indeed, Legolas Greenleaf, dwarrow are used to many fine things.” The stooped wizard says quietly, nibbling on his pipe, gathered drizzle slipping lazily off the brim of his pointy hat. “A solid roof, and fine food, and well-made tools – as should any people who put such work into the quality of their crafts, and whose home and hearth and table are made and set by their own hands. Why should they not complain about unimaginable bridges and the discomfort of rain? They save their silence for much graver things.”

Kíli will not stoop to gawking by turning around to watch, but he feels that the elvenprince has responded to this by being properly chastised, as the wizard canters his horse up once more past Kíli, looking pleased with himself.

To the young dwarf’s surprise, the elves follow a moment later, and Legolas brings their horse alongside Kíli’s pony, and both the Elvenprince and Tauriel dismount quickly, with a grace that Kíli does envy.

He also envies their long stride, which does not suffer much in making their pace make that of his pony, which ambles along lazily, hooves wary of turning stones.

The elves keep pace, but are silent for many long minutes, glancing at each other with quick flickers, as if attempting to argue solely through the intensity of their gazes. Kíli pretends not to watch.

“How would you do it?” Legolas finally asks, speaking directly to Kíli for the first time in days. Thranduil’s son, Kíli was finding, was a rather stiff individual, and most of the time seemed uncomfortable with his surroundings, if not outright withdrawn from them, and from his company. He spoke very lowly with Tauriel, and with Gandalf, and otherwise seemed to bite down sourly.

At times, Kíli wonders if the prince has ever interacted with anyone not an elf before in his life.

“Pardon?” Kíli asks quizzically, as he has no idea what train of thought to which the elf could possibly be alluding.

“Build a bridge to span such a wide river.” Legolas clarifies, nodding towards the grey water. The drizzle plasters silver-blonde strands to his forehead and cheeks, and the chill of it adds a rosy flush to pale cheeks (or was that embarrassment?) and altogether Kíli finds that for the first time he doesn’t look like a Prince at all. He looks a little like Kíli looks most of the time, just another one of his people, making their way as best they are able. “How would a dwarf do it?”

Kíli looks at the water and his thoughts freeze for a moment, words caught in his throat. His mind blanks, and he has no idea how to build a bridge to cross a span of water. Legolas is trying to offer an olive branch to narrow the frigid gap that rest between their people, and Kíli can’t answer a simple question. He can’t even remember his basics.

Kíli loves bridges.

This is horrific.

“The trick with bridges is the foundations.” Dwalin rumbles, having slowed his pony the moment he noticed the elves nearing his prince. “Which rivers make troublesome.”

The glacier breaks, and Kíli can think again, staring at his loyal companion.

“If we’re going to talk about bridge-making,” Kíli says, “We have to start with two concepts: support, and suspension. That is the formula with which any bridge begins.”


	12. All That Goes Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first, apologies for the delay. This next segment is proving to be a monster, and i'm not getting as far as quickly as I'd like. Second, We get a long Kili segment because A) I wasn't going to post another chapter where we didn't get to crossing the Anduin, and B) Fili is being just as difficult to write, so this chapter is all Kili. Third, thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos, they truly do brighten my day, and bring to mind my writing, which makes it easier to continue when i'm staring at a blinking cursor with my thoughts spinning in circles.  
> Enjoy!

They crest the rise around the bend in the river, ponies hooves and leathered soles alike trudgeing a slog up the incline, slipping in the soft mud and wet grass. The rain has finally let up, the clouds breaking to reveal some sunshine, but the puddles and saturation remain.

The horses struggle the most, though the elves do not complain as a matter of pride, and Gandalf merely curses quietly, leading his along. Nori’s pony turned an ankle, and the spy murmurs soothingly to it as they hobble along. They’ll have to leave her in the Ford, a wounded animal too much of a delay, especially as they headed into the mountains, where the terrain was more treacherous.

Sunlight glitters off the expanse of water suddenly revealed, the middle channel churning fiercely in a dull roar, the banks swollen with the rain. The Ford is less a village than a way-station, occupied by an inn, a scattering of shanty buildings, a small ferry dock, and the kind of dour-faced souls that were _pleased_ when it rained. From above on the hill, Kíli can see a horse-cart sucked into the main path – a mire of deep, churned muck – a few solitary fishermen casting lines off the bank, a half-walled lean-to which may or may not be a booth for the ferrier, or for a tollman, and the great stone foundations of a bridge that surely was the creation of a masterful artist and a keen architect.

But only the stone foundations. Even a half-mile off Kíli can see the crumbling columns and weathered braces, and the jagged edge of the stone maw where the bridge span should have been, and where instead was a trio of narrow cables, hanging defiantly over deadly water.

“That is not a bridge.” Kíli says sharply, stuck somewhere between confusion and horror. Not only is it not a bridge, it hasn’t been a bridge for a very long, _long_ time. Great blocks he mistook for boulders reveal themselves as ancient rubble, as the fall from grace of a previous age.

“It is a river crossing, young master dwarf!” Gandalf chimes, seeming lively in the face of his shock. “Whether or not it was the bridge you expected, it is indeed a bridge nonetheless. Worry not, we’ll find our way.”

“Find our way? Are ye daft mad?” Glóin sputters. “We’ll never get Bombur across that wee little line, let alone the ponies!”

“Oi!” Bombur huffs, indignant. Óin, noticing his brother in an argument, if too deaf to understand its contents, looks up critically, and raises his voice as well. Ori tries to settle them, but whatever he says, his voice is too soft for Kíli to make out. He quails when the grizzled healer turns a sharp tongue on him, which offends Nori, who would gladly return the offence with an equally sharp, but much more literal blade.

The elves stare at each other from across their horse, damp and a little bedraggled, and Dwalin ignores all of them, staring beyond the bridge, and beyond the river, to the looming shadow of the peaks. Thorin is out there, somewhere, suffering.

“We’ll make it across.” Kíli says, and, when ignored amongst the bickering, says again. “WE’LL MAKE IT ACROSS!” He roars, suddenly bitterly furious, at the disappointment of the bridge, at the irritation of the damp in his clothes and the blisters on his feet, at their petty squabbling, at the imprisonment of his uncle, and at the absence of his brother.

Dwalin startles, bald head whipping around, as do all the others, turning to stare at him in stunned silence. Kíli clenches and unclenches his fists, feeling his face flush. He shouldn’t have yelled at them. They were no worse today than any other. “We’ll make it across. We’ll leave the animals if we must, but we are crossing this river.” He says firmly, his thumb worrying his ring. “Every hour we waste is another closer to winter, and farther from Thorin.”

They continue to stare at him.

“Aye.” Dwalin says gruffly, with a nod and a tad more life in him. Determination. The others shuffle and agree, with a small chorus of ‘ayes’ as well, and Gandalf smiles approvingly, leaning against his staff.

Kíli huffs and starts down the slope towards the Ford.

The downward slope is gentler than the upward, and the horses that struggled behind pull ahead shortly. Kíli finds Tauriel at his side, her hands on the reigns of the bronze mare, and glances over his shoulder to see Legolas lingering back with the wizard, his dull cloak seeming to blend in with Gandalf’s robes, though Kíli was sure it was green and not grey, wasn’t it?

Another glance reveals Dwalin’s glower, as the guardsman eyed Tauriel narrowly, but for once did not skulk to Kíli’s side as if expecting the elf to stab him at any moment, and instead kept steadfastedly back, allowing them a measure of privacy. That gesture alone told Kíli that his sudden outburst had not been so easily dismissed.

Of course, keeping back also allowed Dwalin to keep the high ground, which may have been a factor.

“You have never been prone to temper.” Tuariel comments, as if picking up a conversation in the middle.

“All dwarrow are prone to temper.” Kíli retorts, and then bites his cheek for the testy reply.

“All dwarrow are secretive, proud, and insular.” Tauriel corrects, with a dip of her jaw and a knowing glance. “That is not the same thing.”

Kíli releases a frustrated sigh, and shakes his head. “No, it isn’t.” He agrees.

She doesn’t say anything further, and her silence is far more supportive than any words could have been, as she continues to walk beside him.

As they enter the Ford proper, Gandalf strides ahead, Legolas with him, the wizard insisting they allow _him_ to make arrangements with the locals, and while most of the company grumbles, Kíli nods his assent, one eye watching Nori slink off into the shadows. Quite a feat, given that he took his lame pony with him.

Bombur and Bifur, who fuss much less than their fellows, make an offer to assist the wagon stuck in the muck of the road, to the great surprise and pleasure of its cursing, hassled owner.

Gandalf returns shortly, gleefully informing them that they have room and board for themselves and their mounts at the inn, if a few of them don’t mind sharing the stables with the beasts of burden. After camping in the wet and rough, none of the dwarrow complain at the thought of sleeping in straw.

There is a fuss and bustle, to get the ponies and horses unburdened and groomed and settled, and a brief, fierce argument over who will sleep where and whom is not to sleep near whom before a sudden and abrupt departure is made by all parties, off to do whatever might please them in the remainder of the day.

Kíli is left so abruptly by his companions that at first all he feels is a startled alarm, his heart thudding uneasily and his skin crawling, taught and expecting danger.

It’s not a foreign feeling, this unexpected, encompassing dread, particularly as they journeyed farther and farther from home. But usually Kíli settled it by taking an account of his companions, ensuring all were still in company and well, with the same dedication for which Óin accounted the contents of his medicine bag, and Bombur their inventory of food.

Except all his companions were gone.

Well, almost all.

Dwalin remained as ever, his stalwart shadow.

Kíli doesn’t catch himself staring at Dwalin until it filters back through his brain that Dwalin is staring at him, his green eyes shadowed and knowing, his proud frame braced over his axe, planted between his feet.

“Half the battle is the waiting, laddie.” Dwalin rumbles, when Kíli blinks and averts his eyes, hands fidgeting like a child caught out. “Dwarrow who brave steel and fire can be undone by the waiting for it, the anticipation, the dread. Tisn’t shameful, tis the way it is. Don’t let it get the better of ye.”

“How?” Kíli pleads, as he only can with Dwalin, who has watched over him since he was an infant and holds no illusions of his pride.

“When you need a fight, lad, do as most of us do.” Dwalin grunts, hefting his axe and slinging it on his shoulder. “Find one.” He says, sauntering out of the stables.

Kíli fetches his sword from his packs and races after the guardsman, the weight of the pommel in his hand lifting the weight of the worries in his heart.

~*~

Kíli and Dwalin spar under the somewhat suspicious eyes of the locals, and to the boisterous betting of the rest of the company. As ever, Kíli finds Dwalin to be right, in that it feels good to have something to fight, when his worries gnaw at him so.

And they do gnaw at him.

He lies awake at night trying and failing to _not_ think of Thorin. He remembers his uncle as some larger than life character, an embodiment of fire and steel, unbreakable and safe, like the mountain itself. He remembers his uncle a proud and strong figure, with all the passion and gravity a future king needs. Mostly, he remembers Thorin playing the harp when Kíli was a dwarrowling and often fitful and sickly, soothing fevers and nightmares alike with soft melodies of plucking strings, and a voice that was sure and deep. Before the death of Uncle Frerin, before the assault on Khazad-Dum, before Thráin truly fell into his madness, and something cold and uneasy came to haunt him, as it would come to haunt Fíli.

That has been how Kíli has always remembered Thorin – bold and unshakeable, playing his harp by the warm fire of the hearth. That memory was the safest Kíli can ever remember feeling. In the past, when Thorin was there, and Kíli was assured that he was loved completely, and what Kíli had wanted most was for Thorin to have been proud of him.

In that way it was easier when he had believed Thorin was dead. The dead are perfect, they never change.

But the living do.

They can change.

They can _break_.

And Kíli doesn’t want to accept that, to consider it, to even _think_ it. He doesn’t want to know what ten years have been like for his uncle. What ten years have done to him. And…and he is afraid. Because he’s not certain what ten years have done to Kíli himself either, what changes Thorin might see.

Whether or not he’d be proud of the dwarrow Kíli came to be.

And that shame torments him, and makes him angry, and troubles his sleep.

He wakes fitfully, as he does most mornings, and pulls his unease out of his uncertain, fragmented dreams and into the waking world.

A dense grey fog has settled in, chill and cloistering and carrying strange echoes as they rouse themselves that morning, even the elves casting wary glances into the obscured dim.

For all that they can hardly see five paces in front of themselves, Kíli feels as if someone of some thing is watching them. Chills crawl up his spine and he finds himself looking unwittingly to Tauriel, and the recollection of her whispered fears of a foreign _malice_.

In her eyes, he sees that same tense look reflected brightly back at him, and they turn jitterly to their companions. The Elvenprince himself looks equally spooked, and Kíli has a good enough of understanding of the deep spiritual nature of elves to be wary of the things they can sense that a dwarf cannot. To be sure, most of the dwarrow seem little affected – irritable and terse, as they were every morning. But Gandalf stared grimly in the fog, polishing and polishing his pipe on his sleeve, though he did not light it.

And that did not bode well for the dwarf's strained nerves. Kíli decreed that they wait, till the fog thinned, but by and by the hours to midday, it clung and showed no signs of dispersing. Worse yet, his reluctance was beginning to unsettle his more stalwart companions.

Kíli grit his teeth, knowing desperately that they could not afford to wait so much as a day, and made the decision to cross.

They bartered with a bargeman to take the ponies and horses across, though the steep fee for the two trips (which made the bargeman grin widely) left the dwarrow cursing, and Glóin especially so. Gandalf, as it was not his money, merely looked pleased to make progress.

For themselves, they could either take the rope bridge (not that any among them would deign to call the frightfully sparse contraption a bridge) or pay for a third river crossing.

Kíli very nearly went ahead and paid, but a jest on behalf of the Elvenprince squandered the thought – no dwarf would ever admit to fear to tread where an elf might go.

The climb up the stone foundation put the dwarrow in a better mood, for dwarrow and stone were bonnie companions, and not so were stone and elves. Gandalf huffed and grumbled for clambering over large, uneven heaps of stone, but did not outright complain, and so the dwarrow were generous in assisting _him_.

Then, of course, they stood on an outcrop of rock above a swelled, roiling river, and stared ahead at the long, drooping expanse of the crossing, three heavy ropes which dipped nearly to the rapids at the middle.

“No. No. I think – I think I’ll go back with the ponies.” Ori muttered fearfully, backing away from the edge. “I don’t swim. I don’t.”

“Come now lad, you’re lighter than the all of us – it’ll be no tizzy for you.” Bombur said heartily, though his own eyes were wide with fear.

“No. No.” The youngest shook his head again. “No, I cannot. I’m sorry.” He looked to Kíli, and he did look very sorry.

“Come now, Ori.” Nori murmured, stepping close to his brother and giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder. “We’re all to do it, and I’ll go before you, eh? Show you it’s easy as that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Your kin will walk ahead, and I will walk behind, young one.” Tauriel offered, her red hair like a brand against the grey surround and her skin so pale it almost shone, making the elf seem even more unworldly. “You will not fall.” She sounded certain.

Ori gulped, and finally nodded, much to the relief of the company.

“No more than three, I should think.” Gandalf said, eyeing the swaying ropes. “Best not to test out luck.” He murmured, brows lifting as he eyed the assorted lot of them. Kíli nods his assent, and an immediate squabble breaks out over who is to cross with whom. More importantly, over who is to cross _first_.

“Here, here.” Gandalf grumbled. “Here, _HERE_.” He raises his voice, coughs, and then clears his throat, continuing more pleasantly. “Dear fellows, I shall cross first, and perhaps with Bombur behind. Just us two, mind, as he can likely count for two himself.”

Bombur growls and mutters angrily, but assents, glad to not be going _last_ , lest his nerve not hold.

“Yes let see…” The wizard mumbles, counting them over their heads. “Myself and Bombur. Nori, Ori, and Tauriel. Óin, Glóin, and Bifur. Legolas, Kíli, and Dwalin. Are we agreed?”

Dwalin doesn’t look entirely agreed, given the vicinity of the elves in that line-up, but assents nonetheless when Kíli fixes him with a hard glare.

Gandalf harrumphs at the lot of them and steps to the edge. Ori whimpers a little, and Nori hushes him with a frown, dark eyes sharp and not altogether happy. The wizard takes a rope in each hand, and carefully places a foot on the center line. He tuts a little, mumbling to himself, and takes a step. The ropes groan and all the dwarrow flinch. The lines sway, and they watch fearfully.

Gandalf sighs, and begins to stride across as if strolling through a summer field, with nary a concern nor faltering step.

Bombur, very white in the face beneath his bristling mustache, takes the ropes in hand, and, steeling his nerve, takes it at all but a run. The ropes bounce and tremor, nearly tossing Gandalf off the end, but the dwarf arrives, huffing a puffing, no more than a few steps behind him, and in far, far less time.

“Perhaps not so roughly!” Gandalf calls across, though what they actually hear is the echo, such is the distance over the water.

Nori purses his lips when he grabs the ropes, and glances shiftily at the company, not nearly as serene as he’d prefer to be. He takes the crossing with a side-line shuffling gait that seems to slide him along the rope more than walk, and Ori, quivering, copies him.

Tauriel, to the intense stress and disbelief of the dwarrow, does not even deign to grab the ropes as she crosses, gliding along the center line as light as a bird, her bow held in her hands. Legolas snorts somewhat ungracefully, and Kíli clenches his fists so tightly his fingers lose feeling.

But they make it safely across.

Óin, Glóin, and Bifur have a somewhat less steady time of it, with far more lurching, stopping, and cursing involved. In fact, the line shakes and bobs so much that it quite dips them in the river when they reach the middle, which encourages the older dwarrow to take the last half in Bombur’s example – at a rather harried full-tilt charge.

The lines rattle, and the water bellow seems to hiss for the intrusion.

Kíli is reluctant to leave the comfort of solid stone, and Dwalins grip on his axe is frightfully taught. Legolas frowns, looking over the grey water below, and even he seems hesitant to take that first step, where Tauriel was fearless.

“Well, elf?” Dwalin mutters, brittle as blackstone. Legolas gives him a narrow look and steps out, putting one hand on a support line. Kíli grabs both, and tests the center line with his weight. It shifts underfoot, and the straight line of Legolas’ back wavers slightly. The ropes are cold, wet, and coarse to the touch. Kíli slides out a step, and everything holds. Something in his stomach relaxes a little.

“Easy does it, lad.” Dwalin says behind him, never too far from his prince. They slide closer and closer to the water, the farther along they get, and Kíli catches flashes of shadows and highlights in the churning grey, almost like – almost like faces. Or _a_ face. The same face, watching him.

He snaps his gaze back up, freezing to the lines, and listens to the water hiss. _It’s nothing._ He tells himself. _It was nothing._

Except Legolas has stopped as well, head cocked, as if listening…

 _What does he hear?_ Kíli frets _. What is it?_

He strains his own ears, but there’s nothing. Just rushing water, and moaning ropes, and his own chattering teeth. They can see neither bank now, both sides obscured by fog.

“Move along, elf!” Dwalin calls, impatient. Kíli jumps, startled, and clings uneasily to the ropes as they sway for it. He shuffles along, catching up to Legolas, whose pale hair nearly glows, even now. Especially now.

“I don’t think we’re-“ Legolas’ voice, quiet as it was, cuts off, as the ropes jerk sharply beneath them.

“What?” Kíli gasps, clinging fiercely to the guide lines as Legolas’ free hand shot out to do the same. The lines still, as Kíli stares at the back of Legolas’ head as intensely as he can feel Dwalin staring at his own.

There’s a susurrus in the water, a soft shift in the current that simply _should not be_. Kíli doesn’t look down. He can’t look down. “Legolas?” He almost can’t even speak.

Everything is perfectly still.

And then something gives way.

 _Behind_ them.

The tension in the lines goes suddenly slack, without warning or fanfare, and gravity slides, and then-

Cold.

Just cold, cold water.

~*~*~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Tolkein, I love you, but the accents on their names are murder.
> 
> Also note: This fic is un-beta'd, so if their are any egregious errors (I try to weed them out myself, I do) shoot me a comment notation or a message and I'll do my best to fix them.


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